


Forge

by skyereads



Series: Metallurgy [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Accidental Plot, Angst, Breeding, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Introspection, Mandalorian Culture, Mating Rituals, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Series, Ritual Sex, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Some Plot, The Helmet Stays on During Sex, Unresolved Romantic Tension, mando is moody, mando is such a dork i can't, playing fast and loose with Mandalorian culture, slight Breeding Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:13:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22743067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyereads/pseuds/skyereads
Summary: A great honor has been bestowed among a Mandalorian bounty hunter - to preserve their culture in Ritual Coupling. When a distress signal that can't be ignored interrupts the isolated Coupling, Din questions the very role he has been given, within himself, his Tribe, and the galaxy. The Mandalorian woman he's paired with proves to ween her way into his heart.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Din Djarin/Original Female Character, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Metallurgy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690960
Comments: 28
Kudos: 142





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Have you done this before?”  
> He did not know exactly what she meant. Taking his silence as a cue, she re-iterated. “I mean a ritual, like this. A ritual coupling.”  
> “Have you?”  
> There was a pregnant pause.  
> “No.”

“Have you ever taken your helmet off in the presence of another?”

“Never.” 

\---

The covert was hosting a visiting entourage of other Mandalorians from another clan. Their ship had come in the night, and an armed escort made their way into their armoury. They were greeted with usual warmth and respect, disappearing with his Armourer to one side of their hidden underground tunnels. They kept to themselves, this covert of others, but their presence caused a stir among the group. Whether it was hope or something darker, he didn’t comment on.

He was called into the Armoury later that morning by his leader. She awaited him in her usual spot before the fires, the furs around her neck bristling in the air.

“What news?” He bowed.

“A great honour has been bestowed upon us,” said his Leader. He sat across from her, mirroring her posture. Their helmets leveled at each other. “You have been chosen. These visiting Mandalorians are completing a ritual coupling and have chosen you as their consort for the ritual. One of their member’s is a pure blood, and fertile. They have come here to complete the ritual.”

It was in instances like this when he was glad for the helmet, for something resembling shock rippled across his features, but remained hidden. He had heard of these rituals. They were not practiced too often, but in many ways the mysteries of the Mandalorian ways eluded him.

“This is the Way,” he said by way of response.

“This is the Way,” his Leader repeated, and she nodded at him.

Behind him five Mandalorian entered the room, four in black beskar and one in the center of their circle in an armor of deep purple. They all acknowledged each other cordially, silently. His Leader stepped forward.

“This is the one I told you about,” she said, with her hand was outstretched, towards him.

Five helmets turned to him. He bowed in the Manda’lore manner. None moved. The black helmeted ones seemed to be in anticipation of the one in purple. The seconds passed. An outsider would have blinked and missed the slight inclination of the one purple helmeted head, but all in the room were perceptive in the ways body language and they caught its meaning.

She stepped forward, her beskar of purple body armour winked and shone like new. He was suddenly self-conscious that his russet steel, and his tattered cape was in such poor condition.

Pure Mandalorians were rare indeed – perhaps of royal descent, such was the assumption his Leader had given to him. With their numbers so few and stretched so far between the galaxies, the chances of their crossing paths were steeped with serious ritual and circumstance. Mandalorian women were rarer still. It was an honor indeed to be Chosen and he would do his duty in continuing their people.

“It is done then,” the Other one spoke.

\---

He was brought to a room deep in their covert’s underground hideout in the sewers. He was to be isolated for seven days while the ritual took place. Of how exactly things were to proceed, he did not know the complexities, only that he would be ready when called upon. His few personal items were brought to the chambers by the black guards and left there, including food. It was a large chamber, meant for living and relaxing. Two rooms were set off the main part, each for sleeping and another one for bathing. He would have preferred to sleep in his own ship, but he had been forbidden from leaving now that the initial stages of the ritual had begun.

When she first joined him, unaccompanied by her guards, he stood and made a kind of bow.

“Is this all you have?” She meant his few possessions, most of which comprised weapons. “I hear you are a bounty hunter.”

He nodded, and so she continued when he gave no indication of speaking. “Many of those in our race have taken up this profession. Mercenaries, guns for hire – that is what we have all become. I am reminded of the lengths our people have gone to survive, and we still are fed only scraps.”

She paused to let him answer. To which he only replied, “There is dignity in payment, especially when the payment is beskar.”

“Dignity indeed to be paid what is rightfully ours.”

He chose to ignore the harshness of her tone – he had heard similar critiques from many others in his clan. Such was the complications of bounty hunting. The Other took a few steps to enter the chamber but preferring to keep her distance from him.

“You have chosen your bed already?”

In truth he had not, but she seemed to be on edge, given the firm set in her shoulders and the stiffness of her arms by her side. He was on the ready with a reply in the affirmative when she merely took off in the direction of one of the rooms and the door hissed shut her with what felt like a resounding finality. He slumped back in his chair, returning to the care and proper storage of his items.

\---

The other blackguards came and went, leaving large cases of her possessions. He heard them enter from his antechamber, but they did not linger and were reticent in speaking to him. Still no one had explained how this ritual was supposed to happen, or what exactly his part was to be in all this. Well, he could take a few guesses, but it unnerved him a bit. He thought of what his Leader had told him in the Armory, hours ago, though it felt like ages, something about ritual coupling, fertility, consort. His head swam. Surely, they didn’t think…he had spent no more than two minutes with this woman!

Perhaps all they required was his seed – an artificial insemination, that would do, certainly?

He was itching to go above ground. For a puck to occupy his mind, or to check on the Razor Crest. He had been meaning to repair some parts, the compressor was always prone to overheating, and a few other things on his list before his next departure, which was meant to happen today, but had apparently been delayed indefinitely. The quicker this ritual took place, the quicker he could leave.

He ate some food in his room, but he felt too queasy to eat much, so merely picked at it. Replacing his helmet, he stepped back out to the main room. He was not alone. His reflexes made him reach for his gun, but he stopped short with his hand poised above his blaster on his hip.

It was the Other and she was not surprised to see him.

“They did tell me you were one of the best in the parsec.” She seemed un-swayed by almost being shot at. Or maybe it was just the mask. Her spine was erect, stiffly so, as was her voice.

“I did not mean to offend,” he said, relaxing his blaster hand. He took his plate of picked-at food to the counter and the sink. Perhaps later his appetite would return.

“You travel off world a lot?”

“When I’m required too,” he answered.

“Never to the Core?”

“Almost never.”

“You pilot yourself?”

“I like to work alone.”

“Every job?”

“Only the worthwhile ones.”

“Prone to danger?”

“Is this going somewhere?” he shot back.

She was nervous. He could hear it in her furtive questions, leaping onto his words almost as soon as he was done speaking. “I mean,” here she paused. “You find pleasure in performing your duty?”

It had never occurred to him before. He shrugged, cutting the tension in the room with his indifference. “I suppose.”

“Have you done this before?”

He did not know exactly what she meant, so he did not answer. Taking his silence as a cue, she re-iterated. “I mean a ritual, like this. A ritual coupling.”

“Have you?”

There was a pregnant pause.

“No.” She sat down heavily onto the chair behind her.

The spontaneous gesture surprised him. He was used to the deliberateness of manners in which the Mandalorians moved and spoke to each other, especially about their rituals and customs. It seemed to taint the sacredness of their meeting.

He moved a little closer to her. “I understand…something is supposed to happen.”

“Yes. Something.” Her helmet was directed towards him, but he was unsure if her eyes were. It gave an illusion of confidence, betrayed only by the hunch of her shoulders and the unconscious wringing of her gloved hands.

He felt his own face heat up under his mask and lowered his gaze. “You are tired from traveling,” he said. “Perhaps you will feel better in the morning.”

What could only be described as a sound like a sigh or a suppressed laugh fell from behind her mask. He bravely looked back up at her. She made a sharp movement as if to respond to him, but changing her mind, she stood, warily so, relieved if she ever gave that impression.

“Yes. I am tired. Thank you.”

“Tomorrow then?”

They stood with their helmets squared off to one another.

“Tomorrow.”

\---

There was a knock on his chamber door the following morning. The sim lights had mimicked a sunrise and thus a natural wake up. He had been expecting it for some time, so was ready when he said ‘enter.’ The door opened. It was one of the guards in black from the day before.

“Your presence is requested,” the guard said – a female voice coming through the speaker. In the perfectly polished black and silver helmet’s reflection, he saw his own distorted one.

She was waiting in the large shared chamber, seated at the head of the table – in her same purple helmet, only this time she was wearing a long dress robe of some dark gray duraweave material, it covered her from neck to feet. There was no sign of her other beskar or weapons.

“Good morning,” she said, voice just as stiff as before.

“Morning.”

The guard in black left as swiftly as she had appeared.

“I trust you slept well and are fully rested,” she said.

In truth he had not, but he wasn’t about to admit to it. He had tossed and turned nearly the whole night, half the time with a rock-hard erection. Personal relations, though allowed among Covert members, were not his forte because, and he justified this to himself and to his partners, of his constant travels around the galaxy which left him with little time for companionship. Many outsiders were enamored with the mystery of the mask, and seductions from other species had been met with coldness. He worked alone, and many times others only proved a distraction, too complicated – pleasurable, sure, in the short term, but limited, and anything longer term, well that required much mental preparedness.

So, his anatomical announcement last night – betrayal, he preferred to think of it – could only be called for because of the lingering anticipation. His last coupling was – well, best not to count the days since…

The erectness of her shoulders was intimidating enough. She held herself with the same quiet confidence he recognized and so admired in his Armorer, the same command of the room that came not from aggression or hostility, but from a place of stillness, composure, and an undercurrent of solicitude. It was this very presence that commanded his attention.

“Yes, thank you. I did,” he lied. The formality was a touch too forced, he felt, but she resumed.

“The ritual is to begin then,” she said.

He had been wondering how to proceed here. She betrayed nothing. The mask severe as ever, the narrow slits of her visor portraying a perpetual squint.

“This is the Way,” he said.

It revived her spirits. She stood to her full height, turned and walked into her antechamber. Realizing he was not following, she paused by the door. He quickly trailed her.

Her room was the mirror image of his, slightly larger, with the same sim lights that brought forth a hue mimicking dawn, with yellows, reds, and oranges emanating from unseen portals. Her possessions were in one corner, few though they were, they seemed enormous compared to his – then again, his comprised mostly of weapons. There was a pile of data pads, which intrigued him, but little else in the way of personal items. Mandalorians were refugees; what they owned was largely worn on their bodies.

He shifted his weight between his feet, looking at his hands. She was waiting for him again.

“You are to undress.”

It was a command. Being the best bounty hunter in the parsec meant he did not hesitate to take orders. He pulled off his cloak first; it pooled at his feet.

“Not completely,” she added quickly and shifted further up the bed, making room for him too.

His gloves came off next; he already felt naked, what with her watching him so intently, and the awkward loud clump of material that fell in a heap at his feet. Many Mandalorians averted their gaze in the presence of others undressing or removing parts of their armor, out of respect of one’s honor – the beskar being like a second skin. But she, she held her head up, watching him. She was a noblewoman as far as he knew, her honor, and the untarnished gleam of her beskar designating her rank.

“Um.” He was treading lightly “I’m not –“

“Of course. You’re not ready.” Her euphemism was appreciated. “May I?”

She beckoned him closer and his feet moved unconsciously. A warm flush spread down his body, pooling in the pit of his stomach. He nodded, once, sharply.

Her ungloved hands (small, but not as delicate as he had presumed), approached him slowly. She reached for his midriff, pulling at the fastenings that held his loose-fitting under-armor and his cock gave a piqued twitch. A clinking of metal, the rustling of fabric, and then suddenly one of her hands was wrapped around his length. He realized he was holding his breath, and all too quickly let out a sigh. His hips involuntarily hitched, and his knees buckled, hitting the bed. She gave a few experimental tugs. Her hands were warm, and he had to admit, it felt nice, but then they were gone.

He had a sudden head rush. Vaguely there were sounds of a drawer opening and closing, something popping open and then, after a few seconds with bated breath…her hand went back down his pants and a cool, wet liquid oozed from her palm, sliding over his cock, warming with her caresses. His body responded immediately. He tried to focus on the sensation of it alone, not the awkwardness of her presence, not even the weight of his armor, suddenly heavy on his body, or the stuffiness inside his helmet, which he could normally tune out. He bit his lip, silencing any other sounds that came from his mouth, except for a few pants. He dared not look down, shutting his eyes to force out any vision of what this looked like, of the tableau they made – her hands at the opening of his pants, the head of his cock peeking out from the folds of the fabric, leaking and purple. His knees weak, and his hands limp, useless, at his side, clenching and unclenching.

He heard, other than the slick sounds of her strokes on his ever-hardening length, the rustling fabric of her robe. She had moved closer; he could feel the warmth of her body near him. There was a clunk of armor touching, and he realized his head had drooped so low that it had come to rest on the top of hers. He immediately recoiled, opening his eyes.

She was half lying beneath him, the ends of her robe hitched up to her knees.

“Lie on top of me,” she instructed. Her hand on his cock disappeared again. He nearly moaned out loud at the loss of the touch. He bent over her, hands up by her head, until she was lying fully prone underneath him, and softly touching on his hardness she guided him…

The overwhelming sensations made his head swim. He focused his eyes on a point below him, it took him a second to realize it was her bare thigh, partially revealed between the folds of her dress robe, a patch of skin, pale like his. He gripped it, then moved his hips, rutting between her parted legs.

The woman began making sounds underneath him, squirming, panting. One of her hands was latched onto his wrist, next to her helmet, the other was tangled in the sheet, knuckles white.

“Am I hurting –?” He threw the question out, his voice rough.

“No.” It was a whine. “No.”

It felt mechanical, his movements. Absurd almost. Her legs spread to accommodate him, knees bent, their hips moving in tandem. Nothing but the sounds of their slick bodies moving and few small gasps escaping from her mouth, and when he changed the angle of his hips, her back arched off the bed. Despite the overwhelming sensations in his body and the kind of blind desire and heat that spread around him, he moderated his pace, pulling in and out with deliberation. It made his wrist stiff, holding himself like this, but he’d suffered worse, so ignored the numbness in his fingers of his right hand, and went back to focusing on that triangle of skin of the inside of her taut thigh.

One of her hands slipped between their bodies, disappearing beneath her robes, he heard a whine escape her helmet mics, a kind of soft keening sound, and he realized… Oh stars, he realized with a dizzying rush, she was rubbing herself. She was claiming pleasure in their coupling.

“Let me, let me.” He repositioned himself so he was sitting more on his knees and less on his good arm, he held one hand on her hip, grabbing what flesh he could feel under the fabric of her dress. With his now tingling right hand, he felt under the dress (honoring her modesty) to where her fingers were placed and made small circles with this thumb on her clit, already slick with her wetness.

Her response was immediate. Her body shuddered and her one exposed thigh trembled even more. She started panting heavily, her neck stretched, her helmet tilted away from him, the robe of her dress fanned between them. He fucked her like that.

She must have been biting down hard on her own lip because she came almost completely silently. Just a few breathy pants, a grunt, and her hips bucked. He watched, impressed, keeping his fingers rubbing circles on her clit. He felt her clenching around his cock in a few swift rhythms, and then, she melted. He only took a few more pumps, in, out, in, out, her body pliant under him, and then he came, doubling over as if he’d been punched in the gut, crying out.

The sensation around his now-sensitive cock was too much and he made to pull out, but her legs around his hips were like a vise.

“Wait a second. Just wait.”

He hung his head, trying to catch his breath now. He felt dizzy and tired, his limps heavy, but he obeyed. She was ensuring that his seed would be inside her.

When her grip on his hips loosened, he pulled out, feeling the loss of warmth instantly. He turned away from her, pulling up his fastenings quickly, and before he knew exactly what he was doing he stumbled out of the room, pausing only to collect his cape and gloves, and made his way to the privacy of his own chambers.

A sense of relief came over him when the door shut behind him, blinked rapidly in the empty room. He was sweating, still clutching the fabric of his half-fastened pants and his cape. He felt like taking a nap, or a bath, or perhaps both. He then noticed that he was starving.

Someone, one of her black guard, had left a tray of fresh food on the table in his private room; he removed his helmet so he could drink and eat a few morsels greedily. A wash, would do, yes. His mind conjured up images of what she was doing now, and he felt his face go warm with the thought of his hasty exit out of her room, not a word exchanged after their coupling.

Their coupling…his mouth went dry. He drank some more water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bounty hunting had showed him the worlds and its complexities. His voice softened. “It seems cruel to raise a child in this world.”

He kept to himself to rest of the day. Thankfully, he heard very little movement on the other side of the door to the outer chamber. It didn’t improve his mood, which was foul considering that he had to stay indoors. He didn’t appreciate being locked in.

He took stock of his provisions, weapons, and a mental list of stuff he kept in the Razor Crest. Maybe they would let him do a supply run while he was planet side for so long? All this occupied his mind, for a while. Then, it was back to furiously pacing around the too-small room. He wanted to check on his ship; check on the Guild, surely there were good pucks coming through that he was missing out on.

He did not hear the Other join him in the main room as he collected his belongings.

“Where are you going?”

“I can’t stay cooped up. I’ll be back.”

“Wait.”

He stopped with his body half-turned to her.

“They’ll stop you,” she said.

“I can handle it.”

“Let me intercede –” but she was cut off by the sound of the main door opening, revealing one of her blackguards in the threshold.

“Where are you going?” came the gruff mediated voice, pitched lower in half threatening tone.

“Out.” He pushed past her, but the blackguard stood her ground.

“The Tribe’s rules are clear during the ritual –”

“Try and stop me then.” He was itching for a fight, his hand hovered above where he kept his vibroblade.

The blackguard stepped forward, responding in kind to the threat on her honor.

“Let him pass.” It came from the woman in armor behind him.

The blackguard hesitated, pulled between deferring to her higher-up and his impasse, but shrugged her black cape and stepped aside. He left the room swiftly without looking back.

\---

The cantina was in a kerfuffle when he arrived. Greef Karga, seeing his Mandalorian swagger in, waved him over to the usual booth where he was nursing a fancy cocktail of some kind, absolutely bloated on pride.

“Mando!” His voice boomed. “You’re still here! Come to share in the profits? I only hope you’re not too late”

“Late for what?” He eyed the rowdy crowds around him, wondering what had their energies up.

“You haven’t heard?” Karga settled back in his chair, taking an easy sip. He relished in storytelling, such a fan of drama as he was, and in stark contrast to the stoic russet-steeled figure before him.

“A Guild member has gone rogue,” his usually effusive pitch dropped into a near whisper as he leaned closer. As if keeping it a secret, which it clearly wasn’t anymore. “Not many do. Or live to tell the tale. Pressed too many buttons, asked too many questions.”

He smirked at the stiff and silent figure, puffing his chest out even more.

“That’s why I like you Mando,” he shook his finger at him. “You know when to keep your head down – even in that tin can. Thought you’d be off-world by now anyway? I had a few pucks just sitting here the other day, but you didn’t show, Mando. Had to give them up. Have you decided to take a holiday and not share?”

“Repairs on the Crest,” he said, flicking his wrist as if he were batting a pesky insect. “I’m grounded for a week.”

Karga, thankfully, didn’t press. “Well, care to join in the fun?” He downed his cocktail in a flourish and waved to the droid tending bar. “Another round for my friend and I. We have our hunter back!”

“Where’s the fob?” Even the vocoder couldn’t hide his impatience.

“Don’t you want more of the salacious details? Apparently this cock-eyed, bull-headed–”

The details threatened to bore him, so he said, with a touch more malice, “The fob?”

The older man paused in his narrative, then with an eye roll and a dramatic sweep of his hand, he slid the device over the table; its red light blinking in slow succession. Karga turned business-like again, much to the other man’s relief. “Guild rates are at risk here, don’t need me to tell you that. Bring ‘em in quickly. They’ll be blacklisted from the Guild for sure, if they don’t turn up dead already.”

The droid arrived with Karga’s second cocktail and he took this as a cue to leave, snarling under his helmet when the droid came to close to him. He left the raucous cantina behind and took to the streets. There’d be others hunting, he figured, Karga was one to give out as many fobs for a job as he wanted. But the Mandalorian, he thought differently from the others, more deliberately, and he took off down the streets of Navarro. A strategy was already brewing in play for catching his prey; he was practically vibrating with the thrill of the hunt. A predator stalking its prey.

\---

Upon closing in on the asset – the rogue Guild member – he had taken a few hits to his beskar; one on his pauldron – a blaster shot that ricocheted off and down an alleyway, and another one that singed the side of his arm. He had taken on worse. It cleared his mind, fighting; he didn’t have to think about his duties, in that dismal chamber underground.

The man pleaded for his life, to no redress from the tinted visor of his helmet. Whatever this rogue agent had to say, he didn’t bother to hear the details, only delivering him – sweating, stuttering mess that he was – back to Guild headquarters.

Greef Karga’s smile at the Mandalorian was feral upon seeing them enter.

“Did he try to bribe you?” Karga asked as he tossed the coin pouch at the armored man.

“Tried.”

The older man’s laugh bounced of the walls. “As if you could go soft, Mando.”

His reputation intact, the bounty hunter could return to his covert with some prying eyes off him for a few days more.

He returned to his Armorer later in that evening, right before the sun was going down. Sitting with her was a familiar purple silhouette, bent low towards each other, speaking too softly for him to catch. The coinage clinked loudly on the table where he placed them between the two women.

“The ritual is commencing?” his Armorer spoke as if ignoring the payment.

The purple helmet nodded. “Yes.”

“How is it…proceeding?”

The questions felt unnecessary, as if an added formality for his sudden interruption into the room, and it hung in silent trepidation of an answer. There was a suggestion of a relationship between the two women, as their body language relaxed between them. He thought he caught a hint of a tease in his Armorer’s voice with her question, given the sensitivity and the nature of the ritual, he had assumed such intrusions on the proceedings were not allowed.

“Satisfactory,” said the Other. He huffed in retaliation before he could think to censor himself. The women betrayed no sign of his apparent dissent to the contrary. He shifted, uncomfortably, and rolled his eyes under his helmet.

Satisfactory, indeed.

“Good,” said his Leader. The Armorer made a movement to collect the coins he had left on the table before her. “For the Foundlings,” she said, finally tilting her helmet slightly enough in an acknowledgement to him.

The two women stood in unison.

“I, myself, accepted the honor of carrying on for our people,” said his Armorer. “Some years ago, I completed a ritual coupling, though it did not take. Exposure from the wars left my womb infertile. I pray that you will not encounter the same misfortune. You will not leave again,” concluded the Armorer. “Until the ritual is complete. This is the Way.”

With a flourish of her cape, the one in purple turned and started down the hallway towards their shared quarters. He could do nothing but follow, chastised as he was, and guiltily so, winding through the dimly lit halls of the underground covert. Once they were deep into the bowels of the sewers of their city to where their quarters were and out of earshot of any lingering Mandalorians, he hissed “Satisfactory?” at her unshakeable shoulders. If she was ruffled by his comment or made any movement to answer or contradict, it was lost on him.

His bounty had fought with little compunction other than to save his own skin and he was beginning to feel the effects of the brawl that had taken place earlier that afternoon.

“You’re bleeding.”

Her voice stopped him from the other side of the room. Truly, he had relegated the stinging on his arm to a lesser degree, but one could not argue with the sight of the slash on his upper arm, by his tricep, and a deep red stain around it proving its seriousness to be otherwise.

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

A sound of static came from her helmet – a sigh or perhaps a muffled protest, he wasn’t sure.

“Will you sit?” She gestured towards one of the chairs. It looked inviting enough and he did, suddenly feeling bone tired.

She brought out a medpac from one part of the room and, without fussing, began to wipe at his arm with gauze and a bacta. It stung for a few seconds and he seethed, more static from him this time, but she didn’t let up.

“Your blackguard,” he said, breaking the silence while she worked, not out of necessity or any particularly personal interest, but more because he felt the tension of the room and wanted to fill it with something. Also, it distracted him from the stinging bacta gauze. “They are all women?”

“Yes, they are.” Curt, direct, hiding something else, of what he couldn’t put his finger on. No doubt, irked at his disobedience or his near stand-off with her guards.

“Mandalorian women are rare.”

“It’s not true,” she said after a pause. He thought he stabbed her too hard with the antibiotic syringe from the medkit, but he could have been imagining that. His pain and discomfort melted away with the medicine now kicking in.

“There are many Mandalorian women. We hide, that is all. Many take up their armor and live in the world as men do, bringing honor to our Tribe. We do so to live, to survive. My covert is nearly all women, for us it is the males that are rare. Hence why such rituals are so important.”

There were many mysteries to the Tribe that even he knew better than to ask about. He thought of his Armorer. “Many women in the Tribe choose this?”

“It’s the only way we can continue. Some even choose mates.”

She moved away from him, packing up the medpac. It was then he noticed the data pads on the table before him, like the ones he had seen in her room. She must have spent her day reading them and left them unattended here. He rifled through them, casually, not wanting to stand just yet.

“I thought the Foundlings were the future?”

“Foundlings are raised alongside any child of the Tribe. Do you not want to play a part in the continuity of our people?”

“I never thought I would ever play a part in it,” he answered honestly, for bounty hunting had showed him the worlds and its complexities. His voice softened. “It seems cruel to raise a child in this world.”

He took her withdrawal as his cue to leave, so he stood, and his armor and weapons clinked loudly in the silence of the room.

\---

That night it happened again. His anatomical betrayal. He woke, momentarily confused by his surroundings, not recognizing the soft lights of his ship, nor its incessant hum, and his paranoid mind even in half-slumber still leapt for his helmet and his weapon in the darkness. Then the memory of where he was and why he was there came flooding back and he stilled, panting into the night air.

He flopped on the bed, groaning in frustration. His member was at full attention, tenting awkwardly in his breeches. Really, when was he going to stop acting like a _boy_ and behave!

It was entirely unmotivated, though not entirely unwelcome… the darkness, the solitude of the room. The night before, when his first betrayal had taken place, he merely sat on his hands and willed it to calm down, thinking of inventory lists, and banking accounts to distract him. Now – kriff, now! Such thoughts were a blaze on his active mind, stolen so sharply out of slumber and so intensely overwhelmed as he was.

He was thinking of their coupling – stuck on it, for it played like a loop in his head. The triangle of skin, the slickness of her body. Even his hands itched with the memory of touching her while he rutted against her. _Let me, let me_. He was blushing furiously now, member still stiff as a board, his body practically humming. So, he turned over, lay face down and buried his heated face into the pillow as if to stifle any further memory. It only served to press his cock into the mattress and he moaned at the contact and pressure.

No one would know, he thought. No one would have to know. He could just to a little, one, two, pulls, and –

Her hands – the same ones which had patted at his arm, tended to his wound – had been experts on his cock. His hips twitched into the mattress. Confident, she knew her way around one, was even prepared with oils. Their helmets had clunked together in the clumsiness of their movements in an unintentional keldabe kiss.

His mouth parted in a pant and the scratchy material of his pillowcase caught on his lips, he imagined for a second that it was the duraweave material of her robe, which covered her from neck to floor. If he could part that robe, could reveal her body, her legs spreading for him…

Stars, this was working. If he kept rubbing his hips into the mattress, the material providing some friction and yet not enough. He dared not touch himself, not yet…

In the privacy of his own quarters, his mind, emboldened by the ongoing darkness of the room and the silence of the night, and the adrenaline rush of his Guild catch earlier that day, stretched to where she might be lying, and imagined that she was tossing and turning in her own bed, feeling the friction of her sheets. She might even be wet, he thought. He tried to imagine her breasts; he knew the power of a mystery, of what could be masked. He would take those breasts in hand, he imagined, kiss one, drag his lips over her nipple, and then the other, while she arched into his touch.

The rough pillowcase scratched at his cracked lips again. The heat between his leg was building, his cock throbbed, and his fingers tightened in the bed sheets. He kept up a simple rhythm of his hips canting into the mattress, touching just there – there!

He’d be kissing her, yes, on her thighs – those strong legs – he had felt them how they had held him in place. He would lick that triangle that had so tantalized him before…and he’d blow a soft, teasing breath across her wet cunt, making her shiver and absolutely breathless, before leaning down and tasting her salty, musky….

He was coming. He was coming! Biting back a loud groan that threatened to reverberate in the dark room, his orgasm shuddered through him. Nothing but a dirty mind and some pressure on his cock. Stars, what was he fourteen again!?!

He lay panting for a few moments more, curled to one side, completely winded and somewhat brain dead. Above him, a vent turned on and blew cool air into the room, making him shiver as it hit his warm body. He rolled over with another groan, his hands sore from clenching the sheets so tightly, and he wiped them, guiltily (guilty of what, he wasn’t sure, the darkness obscured his crime) across his face and through the sweaty mass of his hair.

Luckily, he was feeling himself drift back to sleep. Sometimes an orgasm had the opposite effect, spiking him with adrenaline, but he was grateful for the drowsiness, the lethargy tugging at his eyelids, which kept closing shut. The sticky, wetness at his crotch did nothing but make him uncomfortable and he hadn’t meant to ruin his breeches. He pulled them off, clumsily, and wiped whatever residue was left on his body then shucking it in a corner.

Sleep now. Figure it out in the morning, he told himself. What a luxury to have such thoughts, to not be chasing the puck. He hummed softly to himself, his body practically melting into the bed and before he knew it, he had drifted off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Suddenly shy, are we, bounty hunter?” she said, as if reading his mind.

There was little else that he was prepared to make up during their daytime hours and it made him sulky. He made an appearance in their shared chambers shortly after first meal on their third day together. She was there, because _of course_ , consumed by the data pad before her. She was speaking into a small comms link, apparently making plans of some kind with someone on the other end. Both were speaking in the Mando’a language.

She gave a mere nod in his direction at his entrance and went back to her work. So, he took up a spot by the table and brought his weapons out, cleaning them, but keeping her out of the corner of his eye, trying to act as uninterested as possible.

“Did you catch him?”

The rag hesitated along the barrel of his blaster. She was standing closer now, nearly a few feet away, done with her comm. One hip rested on the table with her arms crossed at her chest.

“The bounty? Did you get your guy?”

“I always do,” he sighed. He kicked his feet up to rest on the opposite chair; the rag in his hand picking up tempo once again.

“I bet.” There was a small tapping of her foot against the floor. “What was his crime? Bail hopping?”

“Nope,” he spoke casually. “Broke the Guild Code.”

The rag didn’t stop until his blaster was as shiny as his helmet, then he moved onto the next one.

“Ah, yes. This infamous Bounty Hunter’s Guild. A rogue agent then. Is that common?”

If she was going to be insistent about the line of questions, he might as well make things interesting. “Who was that on the comm link?” he asked, still keeping his voice informal.

It did the trick. Or, sort of. Her foot stopped jiggling impatiently, and she crossed her arms tighter around her chest.

“Ahem, just business.”

Silence had always been a useful tool to him. He was not effusively forthcoming about details about his own life, unless someone directly asked. Spending so much time alone meant that he didn’t feel the need to open his mouth all the time, and he could sit in his own head. It was not because he was shy, though many mistook him as such, or aloof, but because rather he felt his inner world was so much more richly detailed and speaking felt, well, redundant; besides, his actions often spoke for themselves.

The mask could hide very basic vulnerabilities – reflexive and unconscious facial movements from emotional responses – that was all evident. But silence, he had learned, was powerful. People don’t like silences. The longer he remained quiet, the more people or any species really, wanted to fill that silence, and slowly, eventually, tripped up by the perceived anonymity of speaking to a mask, revealed themselves.

It was a trick that benefitted his bounty hunting – getting information from a client on an asset, or details about a raid or a job. With this Mandalorian, it was no different. She sighed as they sat in an uncomfortable silence – not that he was discomfited, quite the opposite, actually he was merely being economical about his words, and his weapons weren’t going to polish themselves.

When she was squirming enough, she said suddenly, “Do you really want to know?”

The second blaster looked clean enough and so, satisfied, he set it down on the table with the rag.

“I’ll have to show you,” she said.

They walked across the quarters to her room. She lifted a large storage crate off the ground and set it on her bed. It wasn’t filled with weapons, to his surprise, but rather with data chips and various scrolls of flimsiplast.

“It’s incomplete, but it’s quite valuable. I’ve done the work of writing down all the songs of our peoples. They’re collected here. I’ve had them cross-checked with archives from various sources – Republic, the Senate archives, what was left on the registers on Mandalore. They contain the collections from a largely _oral_ tradition. All of which were never written down per-se but were largely memorialized elsewhere. I took those down from interviews and meetings with Tribal leaders, and so forth. That’s one category.”

“Wait, wait. It’s Mandalorian history?”

“That’s not all of it. Much of it was destroyed – treasures, artifacts – the vaults were emptied, cleared out by the Imps. What we couldn’t find I assume is gone, or worse – stolen.”

“But someone must be looking for this?”

“Who? Nobody’s left.”

He picked up the flimsiplast scrolls in one of the boxes. It was covered in stylus-written black scrawl, barely legible, but he was sure was in Mando’a.

“You’ve met other coverts?”

“Very few,” she corrected. “I’ve collected all I could from them, what they were able to smuggle out. We cleared what was left out the libraries on Mandalore and the Imperial Academy. Smuggled them off-planet. Those are my notes” – she directed his attention to the other scrolls containing more writing.

“Some still use the scramble codes from Mandalore – harder to intercept but still used by some of the Tribe. That’s how I’ve kept up with your Armorer. She’s been very helpful.”

She moved to place a second crate on the bed and opened that one – it was largely comprised of data chips.

“The second is anything relating to Mandalore culture that _does_ leave an obvious data-trail. This box contains names from the Registers, birth and death certificates, address books, family and lineage trees.”

(Something dropped in the pit of his stomach at the mention of that, but he chose to ignore it because she was talking so rapidly now, kept diverting and interrupting herself with each excited new addition.)

“…trade secrets from the beskar mining companies on Concordia – those took me forever! Since the mines were largely destroyed or abandoned. There are few tech specs for beskar armor, from the Academy and training regimes, as well as the smelting and armory operations. They were fastidious about record keeping – but that probably won’t interest you as much.

“These ones,” she handed him one data pad in particular, nearly breathless with her lecture, “are the old legends of Mandalore the First and his founding of our peoples, from the separation of clans, to the beginnings of signets. The legend of the Mythosaur – everyone’s favorite. Perhaps you can start there, work your way chronologically forward. That is, if you’re interested?”

He took the data pad, still dumbfounded. “This must have taken you years?”

The Mandalorian woman only shrugged. “It’s my home.”

Before he left the room, she called to him one more time. “We still have the ritual. This evening, we will –”

They were facing away from each other, but he could sense the rigidity in her voice, speaking more to the wall than directly to him. “I will call for you.”

\---

When he got back in his room, his mind was a hurricane. He restocked his now clean weapons and checked on his wound. Someone had left him a tray of food and drink and he ravenously devoured it. After a few hesitating moments of wild speculation did he finally settle back and take up the data pad she had given him. It started with the legend of Mandalore riding the last of the Mythosaur. He lay back on the bed and read.

Some of the stories were familiar to them, from the songs he had been taught as a child while living with the Mandalorians, others he had heard in some form or another. But to _see_ them written, even on the screen of the data pad, collected from across the galaxy. She must have traveled far indeed for these stories, visited many coverts. He felt in the presence of some project that was greater than himself, and the whole of the Tribe. It was all expansive and rather vague, but here, in his hands, on one tiny screen, the words, the stories, something began to make sense.

It made him feel a warmth that spread in his chest, and it burrowed deeper with each new story he absorbed. His fixation on the next puck, the next hunt, was soothed as he read on. The stories acted like a balm on his paranoid mind. As the afternoon wore on, he sat pensively, meditative even, and that itching restlessness, which so drove him crazy yesterday, came and went with ease.

He hadn’t realized how exhausted he had been, and for so long. How looking over his shoulder, living in the tin can of his ship on meager supplies, light sleep, and in the silent, blackness of space had affected his mood. He was less quick to anger, less absorbed with his exit strategy and instead didn’t even notice how the hours seemed to slip by as if on a lazy river.

The data pad was lying on his chest when he woke from a deep nap. Vague threads of a dream fading with each blink – large beasts that roamed in the shadows, and a group of his Tribe sitting around a campfire; Paz was there, so was his Armorer and others, and also, strangely, a vague purple figure hovering at the edges of his vision, all joining in a deep chorus of voices singing, keeping the darkness at bay. He hadn’t even realized he had drifted off, so absorbed he was in the readings. The chronometer told him it was now late afternoon which meant he had occupied himself for the better part of the day with Mandalorian legends.

So, he touched up his armor which had shifted in his sleep, and re-tied his boots, but when he grabbed his blaster, he held it aloft. For a few heartbeats, he considered it, then, tentatively, he left the weapon behind in his room, and entered the main chamber.

It was empty. As usual, invisible hands had made a tray of food ready, which might have been warm some time ago, but he was used to eating things cold. A data pad was on one end of the table, so he went over to see what that one contained, curious for more.

He was startled by the crackling of a comm link. On the counter, the small metal piece beeped and blinked with an awaiting message. Her door on the other side of the room was still – he could hear no movement from the other side. While he considered what to do, a second trill emitted from the machine. And then familiar static followed by an incoming voice.

“Sana?” It called out. The comm link chirped, blinked a red light.

He froze.

“Sana?! Are you there?” The voice came through – a male one.

Then the static disappeared and the comm went silent. He deliberated over it. The chamber was otherwise empty, silent again, just his tempered breathing, suddenly loud through his vocoder. He picked it up and walked over her door, which opened as soon as he stepped close to it.

“Are you decent?” He called into the room, in case she might be un-helmeted, but her room was empty. Just some writing utensils and various notebooks spread across her bed to suggest that she had been previously occupied there. He entered, intending to leave the comm link in a visible spot among her work, when something else caught his eye. It was the box containing the data from the registers of Mandalore, of birth certificates and names.

Quickly, checking over his shoulder that she hadn’t appeared yet, he rifled through the data chips, each labeled, until he found what he was looking for and plugged the chip into a data pad. The screen loaded a series of names dating back a few decades – the names of Foundlings. It was listed alphabetically with dates of adoption and some annotations, he scrolled through them.

His breath snagged in his throat and he nearly dropped the data pad. There it was, his name, the one he used only in his memories – _Din Djarin_. It felt strange seeing it on the data screen, like a long-lost link to an irretrievable past.

The data pad also showed his date of birth and the date of his adoption of the Creed. That was the very night he swore his Oath and put on his helmet for the first time. The only annotation must have been a recent addition. For it merely said under occupation: _Bounty Hunter, Guild Commissioned_.

Nothing else.

Was that it? Wasn’t there more? The data chip had no other clues. Even a basic search brought up nothing but this one entry. He felt at a loss, hollow and confused. He hadn’t even considered what he would do when he did find his name.

It didn’t even mention the planet where he was found, where the Mandalorians had saved him, his home planet.

No. He shook his head of any thought of that, for that was past; this was the Way now.

He heard a movement behind him and whipped around. Habit made him reach for his weapon, but he remembered he had abandoned it in his room earlier and so uselessly grasped at air. A grumble of annoyance stopped mid-way in his throat.

It was only her – Sana, the disembodied voice on the comm link had called her – and, here he swallowed thickly, for she was nearly naked. The purple helmet sat awkwardly on her head, looking oversized on her frame given the lack of armor and other clothing. She was holding a bundle of her armor in one arm and with the other was clutching a white towel to her body.

Said comm link, long gone silent, and which he had completely forgotten about, was blinking an irritating red light in his hand as he held it out for her. She couldn’t reach for it without dropping the bundle of armor or the towel, so she skirted around him as she entered her room, jutting her helmet towards her bed.

“Just leave it there.”

Her shoulders were still glistening and slightly pink from her bath, a dusting of freckles across them. On one calf, he took note as she was still turned away, was an ugly, scar in the shape of a crescent moon – a thin, jagged curve from knee to ankle.

“Enjoyed your reading?” she asked him over her shoulder.

“Yes, thank you.”

It gave him time to replace the data chip among the other ones in the box, the screen in his hand going blank. When he turned back, she was staring at him, though he couldn’t tell where her eyes were exactly.

A few stray strands of hair peaked out from the underside of the lip of her helmet – she must have hastily swept it up. He tried to discern the coloring, the lights were dimmed too low and he was tripping in his boots as he shuffled to the doorway.

“Did you want another one?” she called after him, but he had already made his exit.

The weapons and cleaning gear were still laid out on the main table, so he went back to them, intending to preoccupy his roving mind with the mindless task. Her door remained stolidly shut, and he kept his back to it, as if that would shut out the image of her dressing behind it, along with everything else.

\---

It was some time before she entered the main room and he had very nearly polished every weapon in his armory that he had brought with him. She seemed agitated when she returned. While he could not read her face, the set of her shoulders, the tension in her arms, and her clipped movements into the room; they all provided an inkling of her mood. The comm-call must not have brought welcome news.

She stalked over the main door and called forward one of her blackguards. Between them, they exchanged the comm link and a few words which made the other woman shake her head gruffly. They spoke for a few more moments in the doorway before she turned away from the threshold.

“Thank you for bringing that to my attention. It turned out to be an important,” she said, stiffly.

He shrugged it off as if no big deal and she approached his weapons on the table.

“You’re meticulous.” She picked up the blaster closest to her, weighing its heft, testing its scope. “These are about as shiny as your helmet.”

He found, after some seconds, that he wasn’t as bothered by the sight of another Mandalorian holding his chosen weapon as he had initially thought. After all, she had shared with him, in a way he was returning the favor.

“Go ahead,” he said, “shoot just there.” He pointed to a spot on the other side of the room.

Her helmet twisted in his direction. “It will bring the cavalry.”

She meant the blackguards – who most assuredly would hear the shots and come barging in, begin firing their weapons, and _then_ demand answers. He shrugged a second time – a stand-off might be fun, something to do.

Deftly, she aimed at the corner of the door and fired off a round from the blaster. He blinked rapidly at the sharp sounds coming from his weapon in her expert hands.

Indeed, true to her warning, the main door opened, and a vanguard of black-clad armor charged into the room, blasters raised.

“My lady!” The main one at the fray shouted.

“It’s all right. It’s all right! Merely a demonstration,” she said, turning to calm her fellow clanswomen. “Told you,” she breathed in his direction.

The one in the forefront was clearly the Commander of the small infantry for she had three large stripes on the pauldron of her armor indicating her rank; she did not lower her weapon and lingered for a few moments more, her helmet T-visor squarely on him, as if he was to blame. This commander curtly discharged the rest of the vanguard upon assessing the situation, but still hesitated by the door.

“It’s all right,” repeated the one in purple next to him. “You’re dismissed.”

The black guard Commander nodded, gave a small bow and took her leave, flashing what he only assumed was a glare in his general direction.

By the time the door shut did the two of them move to examine the upper corner of the stone wall where she had aimed his weapon. Five smoking, scorched-black holes were clustered together there – permanent damage in the wall.

“Impressive. Very lightweight,” she said whilst touching his weapon fondly.

“I made some modifications to it.”

“No droid deactivators?” she asked while casting an eye among the rest arrayed on the table and the counter tops.

“I prefer blasters.”

“To each his own.” She pointed to a pulse rifle, in pieces on the table. “What about that one? How does that work?”

“I can’t exactly show you,” he said. “I’d have to disintegrate someone.”

“Ah.”

During a lull, while she assembled and reassembled a common blaster under his eye in record time, he spoke up. “She called you ‘my lady’?”

One of her shoulders hitched upwards in an attempt at nonchalance but was poorly executed. Her focus remained on the now disassembled blaster in her hands, examining its mechanisms with care. “A formality,” she said, guarded. “Some of us still remember the old ways.”

She assembled the blaster, again, in record time, aiming it at an imaginary target on the wall. “You were looking at the registers. The names of the Foundlings.”

He hung his head. “I had to check something.”

“Did you find it?”

His brow furrowed beneath his helmet as he struggled to find the words, feeling a mood threatening to cloud his brain. Instead, he shook his head, and said changing the subject, “I thought there was no more royalty on Mandalore.”

“Oh, there are. Not that it means anything anymore,” she added quickly.

He tried to remember his Mandalore history lessons. “When the Duchess betrayed her people and Clan Vizsla united the clans from Concordia –”

A harrumph escaped her vocoders.

“Clan Vizsla!” Her voice was suddenly sharper, and she laughed bitterly. “Is that what _Clan Vizsla_ taught you?” She practically spat the name. “Of course, _they’ve_ had political disagreements with my clan for as long as I can remember.”

He had a feeling she wasn’t talking about bloodlines anymore. Upon realizing she had said too much, whatever momentary gentleness had settled between them quickly soured. He heard her sigh, heavily, and she placed his blaster down, her interest in his weapons waning.

“Though,” she said, softly, her mood shifting like sands. “It all seems like ancient history now.”

\---

“Perhaps we don’t have the right motivation,” she said.

She had one hand down his pants, pulling at his limp cock, which was not responding – or, well, barely responding. By all means he should be responding, her hand, warm and slicked with whatever oil she had brought with her, felt _good_ – yes, it really did, yet his misbehaving cock could only twitch pathetically, but not go fully erect. Which was what they needed, which was why he was here in the first place, which was why he couldn’t leave the underground, which was why he couldn’t get a bounty hunting gig, which led him right back to why he had to be here, donating his seed – or whatever – all for the future of the Tribe. He ground his teeth under his helmet.

“Stop overthinking it,” she said for at least the third time in the past five minutes. “Just relax.”

“I. Am. Relaxed.” He rasped through a very clenched jaw.

Her motions ceased. Which was exactly not the point.

“Just. Maybe later,” he could grind out when he finally relaxed his jaw.

“You’re too tired. Have you been pleasuring yourself at night?” She had the rare ability to say the most absurd things, like ‘pleasuring yourself’, which was ridiculous, in the most neutral and academic tone (that he was slightly jealous of but also found it incredibly irritating) because of course, she would use such euphemisms like some superiority-complexed-highfalutin-scholar.

“What? No!” He said all too quickly and his voice cracked at least an octave above normal.

“Because it wouldn’t be a problem if you did,” she said.

He wondered if she would think the same thing if she knew his fantasy in the dark room that night had involved her. No, he was going to keep that little piece of information to himself, thank you very much. He could practically see the gears grinding away in her head while she came up with a plan, while he dumbly stood there, holding his pants up.

“Here, sit down.”

Considering how nervous he was, he managed not to fall over as he shuffled onto the bed. Having already removed the clunkier pieces of his armor, the vambraces, the thigh pieces, along with his gloves, belt and boots, he could sit comfortably next to her.

“At least we don’t have an audience,” she said. If she was trying to appease him, that was not the way.

“What?!”

“They used to do the ritual in public,” she continued with a shrug. “Thousands of years ago, yes. Before a Mandalorian court of ministers. It was to ensure that the birth would be pure, untainted. So, at least we’re not doing it before the Tribe.”

“Yeah,” he drifted off, skin prickling, simply burning with the images his mind conjured of what _that_ would be like. He halted that thought process abruptly.

“I read about it. It’s fascinating! The royal clan would choose a member from a rival clan in order to diversify the blood lines every few generations. They were chosen via combat then, with the declared winner given the honorary as consort. More recently during the civil wars, it was a way to bridge alliances. A tactic used in the peace and reunification treaties.”

She took one of his hands. He had always been self-conscious of his hands – his own knuckles looked raw and scarred, the fingers, large; he had broken a few in a fight just over a year ago, so they looked a little crooked to his discerning eye. There was a scar from a blade that he healed with his cauterizer some months back and left a gash on the top of his hand from thumb to wrist – it had shredded through his glove at the time.

If she was taking stock of his wounds, she kept it to herself. She merely laid his hand over hers, flattening their palms together as if comparing their sizes. Her grasp was warm, knuckles slightly pink and cracked from the dry air; her nails were neat but not long, and along two fingers on her right hand she had callouses from gripping her stylus, constantly taking notes by hand.

It was kind of…nice, he mused, being handled in such a delicate way. He momentarily forgot the reason he had to be here and instead wondered about her, about her name, about her face, about her thoughts. His own mind flashed with the images his own dirty thoughts had conjured just hours previously as he had lain in bed, and he fidgeted.

“Suddenly shy, are we, bounty hunter?” she said, as if reading his mind. “You know, in some cultures, it’s believed that one can read one’s fate on their hands. That their whole life is revealed before them – every choice. All here, on these lines. They tell a story.”

She traced them with the pad of her finger.

“Can you read them?”

“No, I can never remember which line stands for what. But see how this one bifurcates? One day you will make a decision so important it will change everything.”

Curious, he looked at the ones on her palm too, then back to his.

“That, or you’ll die young. I can’t remember.”

He huffed. “Too late for that,” he mumbled, feeling very much his age.

There was a scholarly method in which she was assessing him, the back and forth tilting of her helmet, a soft hum under her breath; it made his heart quicken, being the focal point of such telescopic observation.

“Come now, old man,” she said, teasing. “You’ve still got some things.”

She placed his rugged fingers directly on her body. He inhaled sharply, but it was lost by the vocoder.

Under the material of the robe he felt the sharp jut of her clavicle bone, and the soft rising and falling of her chest. There was also what he assumed was a clasp on the garment, right by her throat. Following a nod from her, he unclasped it between two fingers so that the collar, which was hiked up to the lip of her helmet, fell away and revealed her neck. She gave another encouraging nod and his hand traveled down her chest to the next clasp, placed just above her heart. He could see the whole expanse of her throat now, and it rippled as she swallowed heavily. The third clasp was next; his fingers resting right at the dip between her breasts. Her panting increased, loud in the otherwise quiet room.

“See, you've got it now,” she encouraged him. When he unclasped the last one, she gave a small breathy laugh, but it died in her throat because he placed one of his large fingers right under her chin; this time when she swallowed, he felt it. His fingers traced a line from her chin, glacially slow, over the bob in her throat, the hollow of her neck, and down to the point right above her breasts.

Naturally, his cock was beginning to take interest. She noticed, too, but did not rush him. Instead with another nod, she let him part the folds of her robe and lay his palm right onto her round breast. It was soft, supple – such stark contrast to the layers of heavy clothing and armor that usually covered her. He kneaded it, felt its weight and curve, grasping it, then releasing it to brush teasingly against the pink nipple, which was hardening under his touch. Not wanting it to feel left out, he did the same to her other breast, which earned him a few hums of approval (or was it pleasure?) from her.

Freckles abounded across her chest and, as her robe slipped off even more, on her shoulders. She leaned forward, spreading the ends of the robe so it fanned out behind her and sat right on his open lap. Her hands rubbed on his shoulders, massaging around his neck, and he kept palming at every new patch of bare skin before him like it was his life support. She took hold of his wrist and guided it between them, until his fingers hovered above the short, dark hairs on her pubis. He dipped to touch on velvety, wet skin.

 _That_ got his attention. He felt his balls absolutely tighten right up. All the blood in his brain had evacuated south, because he was short-circuiting at feeling how…how _turned on_ she was, and so feeling bolder now, slid again between her parted legs, rubbing at the moisture spreading under his fingertips.

Her nails scrabbled over the armor of his beskar, looking for purchase as she grabbed him and rolled her hips, invitingly slow, while he rubbed at her slick folds; she eventually found a hold at the base of his neck, pulling on the material of his collar, until half her hand found his bare skin, just at the juncture of his shoulders. A soft, keening sound escaped from the back his throat.

“I like it when you make those sounds,” she rasped, something dark and greedy. He whimpered, and hoped the modulator hid it.

Electrified, she pulled at his cock, swiping her thumb over the head, gliding downwards and back up in a few expert tugs. Then she was moving her hips down to grind onto him. They both moaned loudly at the contact, at the sweet stretch of her around him. Then, his hips snapped up, impatient, grabbing at her ass, and she chuckled, low and soothing. She began to move against him, long and slow undulations of her hips, sinuously dragging her clit along his tip, enough to make her thighs – strong, like tree trunks – tremble, and then sinking back down on his fully erect cock with a groan.

He let her move above him, taking in the sensations of her, touching on what he could like it was an offering – the bare skin, her breasts. It was as if he was slowly being consumed by it.

At some point his back touched down on the bed and she stretched over him, draping herself over his body. Hands planted by his head, she began to thrust with staccato-like movements bordering on the rough, the feral. The sounds of their bodies slapping together was sinfully loud, lewd, as she eagerly moved above him. He straight up growled, gripping her breasts in his enormous hands, feeling himself getting closer to the edge, knowing the game she was playing at – trying to get him to come as quickly as he could. It was working, so much so, he had to focus on his breathing then grabbing the tops of her thighs to lift her off his cock for a few beats.

“You’re gonna make me come,” he managed, head spinning. He wanted to see…wanted to see her first.

“That’s kinda the point,” she snarked back.

She gasped audibly when he flipped them over, throwing her down onto the bed with a quick twist of his body. She offered little resistance, perhaps momentarily stunned or turned on. But he gamely took hold of one of her legs and draped it over his shoulder, so the ankle rested by his pauldron.

“Just relax,” he breathed with a hidden grin. Then, with a solid grip on her hip, settled back between her spread legs, sheathing himself once more.

She huffed indignantly, but it turned into a muffled groan for it was his turn to give a languid roll of his hips. He did it a second time, then a third, and he stopped counting because he was loving the feel of the slick friction just clinging to his cock. Then it became blindly chasing that little stilted pant she gave with each drive, clenching his ass with each snap of his hips. From his new vantage point he had a view of the glistening pink around his cock, the pale undersides of her thighs, a triangle of her even paler belly, her breasts jostling with each thrust, and a smattering of freckles, starkly imprinted like constellations on her deeply flushed chest.

One of her hands reached up to lift his under-armor higher up his torso, until it was rucked enough beneath the cuirass to reveal the sloping planes of his abdomen, up to his belly button; the sharp points of his hipbones jutting out and the trail of dark hair leading messily to his crotch. Her palm cupped the V of his hips, and she hissed with each new thrust, feeling its motion fully from the muscles flexing under her palm, to the press of his cock. The usual striking severity of her helmet was missing completely as her neck was angled oddly, almost comically, so as to gaze at the juncture of where their bodies met, hunched forward on her elbow. The material of her robe so far down her arms that they served more to restrict her as she stretched her neck.

When he grazed her clit with his thumb, she clenched around him, body taut. He had her close, so he slowed his pace, alternating with a few more tight circles at her clit, and some tantalizingly large rounds with his hips that made her tightness drag on his cock in a delicious heat, and then suddenly she was canting her hips up, fucking herself on him; a few breathy pants of “right there, right there. Oh! Right – ah, yes – there, yes. Right. There” and she was coming with a loud, wanton moan. Her leg slipped from his shoulder as she arched back, and he fucked in her earnest, while she threw her head back, helmet turned so sharply, throat trembling as nakedly as the rest of her.

He came in quick succession after her, not able to hold on any longer, and nearly collapsed on top of her completely. He held himself up on his forearms, while his hips stuttered weakly a few more times, sperm shooting out of him. It seemed to go on for so long and he made all sorts of, no doubt, undignified, guttural sounds. Then, wincing, he rolled to one side.

The blood pounded in his ears, knocking any other sensation out of his grasp. The image of her naked body, the tight heat of her around his cock, simply seared into his brain, into his senses and it made him shiver all over. Had he been a younger man he might even be ready for round two soon enough on that thought alone.

As he lay on the bed, limbs akimbo, he became vaguely aware of a warm, wet cloth wiping at his crotch. He sat up so quickly it actually made him dizzy, and he nearly collided with her bent frame over him. When had she gotten dressed?

For her robe was back in place on her shoulders, not a wrinkle in sight, clasps done up – not all the way, but modestly so. He had a hazy notion that the last few minutes were unaccounted for and that he may have fallen asleep, but he couldn’t be entirely sure.

“S-Sorry,” he mumbled.

“It’s okay. At least you didn’t make a hasty exit,” she said lightly, maneuvering him back into his pants.

He flushed with shame, embarrassed by his abrupt handling of their last coupling. “I’m not one to stick around,” he said.

She was putting around the room, rinsing the cloth in a small sink in the corner, checking the chronometer, tidying stray items here and there as if their vigorous coupling hadn’t just occurred.

“Do you want to leave?” she asked.

“No,” he said finally.

Done with her tasks, she came back to sit on the bed next to him, bridging her legs over his, like this was their usual level of intimacy. Whatever invisible boundaries ruled their interactions during the day, making them orbit each other in wide berths, had suddenly disappeared.

“Satisfactory?” he prompted.

“Hm, satisfactory,” she said, elbowing his arm.

She had tiny feet – a quirk of royal bloodlines? And cold too, but as he made to warm them between his hands she jerked away and made a sound that he belatedly realized was a squeak.

“I’m ticklish,” she said warmly.

So, his hands settled on her ankles instead, rubbing them under the stiff material of her robe.

“Did you like the stories?” She meant the data pads, from earlier.

“Yes,” he answered. “I’ve heard some of them. By the Mandalorians who raised me.”

Her hand lingered on the torn material where the blaster shot had wounded him the other day. He had forgotten to repair the shirt, though the wound beneath wasn’t more than a scar and a dark bruise now.

“I wonder if we ever crossed paths before this. I’m not that much younger than you. We might even have overlapped in the Fighting Corps,” she said. “Do you remember much from before?”

They were sitting so close he could see a vein fluttering on her neck. Her body slanted as if pulled towards him – a star caught in the orbit of a black hole.

“Bits and pieces.” He avoided her probing gaze. The pads of his fingers traced the line of the crescent-moon scar on the back of her leg. “What’s the story here?”

She relaxed back on her elbows. “It’s a long one.”

He hummed in understanding.

As the night dragged, he stayed. Starved for companionship and conversation. He found himself openly talking about his bounty hunting, and she prompted him with questions. Something triggered a memory of a time he had tried food on one planet, or how cold and unforgiving the landscape was on another. He told her about how on one trip to some desert planet that barely deserved a name it was so uninhabited, and he had gotten caught in a sandstorm and hidden out in a cave for a few hours until it died down. Despite what he thought was good protection under the armor, he had still dumped buckets of sand out of his helmet after that.

She was a good audience, as a collector of stories, she had to be. They took turns listening to each other.

At one point, they had moved to lay down on the bed, the material of their clothing lightly brushing. They had gone for a while now without talking that he had assumed she had fallen asleep, so when she did again, it surprised him.

“I had a mate,” she said.

It seemed to hang in the air above them, crackling the air, like the moment before lightning strikes.

“He was a mercenary in the wars. He told me similar stories about his constant trips around the galaxy. I was particularly interested in visiting the snowy planets, but I never got the chance. He was killed just a month before the Empire fell.”

There was still a rawness to her voice that even the modulator couldn’t hide. She kept speaking quickly; her words and the emotions behind them spilling forth in a deluge.

“We had no children of our own. When news came that the War was over, that it was all going to end, I thought we’d be reunited again. It was a cruel twist of fate. But then, and I – I don’t know. I was angry. I almost – I mean, I had…doubts. In the old ways, they removed their helmets, you know. They didn’t always wear their armor like skin.”

It rang like blasphemy to his ears, a resounding clap of thunder.

“But he made his choice to go to war,” she continued, firmer, circling back. “That’s all it is. Our dedication and adherence to the Creed, I mean. It’s not about blood. It’s about what you choose – a _choice_ , one made over and over. I imagine there are many paths on the Way as long as one chooses nobly, virtuously. Is there a way in which we can live in the open again? I mean truly. Show me a Mandalorian who isn’t traumatized, isn’t damaged in some ways. These wars have ripped apart whole worlds, not just ours. We can choose differently. With empathy. Not in fear.”

These musings took root under his helmet, deep into his subconscious, though he could not form words around it. It brought on a feeling of dismantling, of being off-balance, of some deep foundation within him shaking loose. Of some great being buried within him waking from a deep slumber.

Much later, after departing her chambers, he tossed and turned for what felt like many hours. His thoughts racing, and like a lucid dream, going in and out of sleep, he watched them all dance before his eyes, jumble in his head.

He wondered how often she must think of her mate. If she ever imagined him instead, during their coupling. It’s _his_ cock, she must think of, why she turned her head away when she shuddered around him, wanting her mate to be the one behind the visor.

Something burned sharply in his body, green and envious. What was he doing this ritual for anyway? They were still so unknown to each other. What did he know of her desires? This was for the Tribe, and he would do his duty. And so, the thought faded, drifted away, but left behind a hollow ache.

He pondered, also, on the other paths that might have laid out for him. He felt for the lines etched in his palms, wondering at the story they told and the secrets they held. What other stars were out there? Beacons promising shores of – of what? He did not know.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Thar be plot here. Content warnings apply to this chapter - some graphic violence and horror.

The holoprojection of a distinctly male Mandalorian wavered in and out. The message was so heavily filtered with static they were only able to catch a few phrases.

“Sana, if you are receiving this…I have found it!” It was the same voice that had called through on the comm link just the day before. “The artifact! I have traced it to --” A particularly loud piece of static cut interrupted it and the figure wavered, then blipped back on. “…sources tell me it’s on the move. I plan to intercept it. I will be going dark after this message. Do not attempt to contact me in the meantime. You were right, Sana, our patience has paid off. This is the Way.”

The machine clicked as the message ends and the hologram of the Mandalorian disappeared.

“That was his last message.” It’s her speaking – the one called Sana. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Since then we’ve received his distress beacon. We are attempting to get our ship up and running to trace it, but it’s been in repairs. I would have brought this to your attention sooner, but my Commander is wary of sharing any information with you, especially regarding the nature of my clansman’s mission.”

Said Commander of her blackguard stood menacingly behind her leader, silent and still.

“We’ve had some trouble getting in touch with him,” the one in purple continued, “as his ship is likely damaged, or someone is blocking his comms.”

“And you want to go after him?” He said, speaking for the first time since they’ve called the meeting with him that late morning.

He slept later than he had meant to, having stayed up late post-ritual in conversation, losing track of time. He slept fitfully, eventually passing out like a log early in the morning– no dreams, no anatomical betrayals either. He didn’t bother to count how long it had been since he’d had rest like that. When he awoke intending to find food, he was met with the sight of her blackguard already gathered in the main room, hunching over the holoprojector and making hushed conversation with each other. They all started when he entered, but it was her, Sana (he wasn’t used to Mandalorians sharing names with him) who had invited him to sit with them and replayed the message for him.

“Zavi is reckless, but he’s not stupid. He would have brought his own blackguards. But the distress beacon was sent to me and me alone. I’m the only one in our covert who knows the delicacy of his mission.”

“You don’t think it’s a fake? An attempt to draw you out of hiding?”

“We…hadn’t considered that. But this projector is heavily coded and responds only to his ship’s comms. He engineered it himself. The likelihood there was outside interference is negligible.”

“I’m just considering all angles.” His mind was working fast, freshly churning after all his sleep. He hadn’t been thinking about his bounty-hunting for almost a whole day, so when the possibility of a mission was on-hand, he found easily falling straight into strategizing.

“I believe his distress beacon to be genuine.”

“You’ll need a ship?” he asked.

The two women before him exchanged a glance.

“We would take ours. However,” said Sana. “You see, Zavi and I have the same ship. If we were to show up, whoever has Zavi pinned now will know immediately the nature of our being there, putting us and our mission at great risk. We need to be more…inconspicuous.”

His fingers tapped idly on the table, mulling over the nature of their request.

“If you prefer,” she said, diplomatically, “we can arrange for a droid to fly it –”

“No! No droids,” he said sharply. “I will pilot it.”

“Unacceptable.” It came from the Commander. “My lady, you can’t trust this?”

“I’ll be a ghost,” he said. “My ship is unregistered, even to Imperial and New Republic scanners. If anyone’s looking for you, they won’t see us coming. It will buy us time to set up a rescue operation.”

“He’s a merc!” The Commander raised her voice. “He runs with thieves and criminals. He could turn on all of us in a heartbeat. Steal the artifact for himself and sell it to the highest bidder.”

It was clear this was a sentiment that she had shared with Sana on previous, perhaps many, occasions.

“Actually, not a mercenary,” he corrected her once she had finished speaking. “Bounty hunter. And I don’t even know what this…’artifact’ is.”

The Commander didn’t seem to appreciate this semantic distinction, because she was already ready with a rebuke and Sana put up her hand to silence the other woman.

“Can your ship trace the coordinates of his distress beacon?” Sana asked.

“It can,” he answered.

“We shall consider this.”

\---

Less than an hour later they’ve regrouped. Him, Sana, her blackguards all crowded around the small table in the main chamber.

“The Crest’s navigation has calculated the jump through hyperspace. It’s a fifteen-hour journey to the coordinates your clansman provided,” he said, pointing to the data pad showing the exact route traced by the ship’s computers.

“We won’t know what to expect when we drop out,” he continued. “There could be multiple ships. We should be ready for a dogfight. Assuming he even has this ‘artifact’ in his possession. We can attempt fly in stealthily, pick up your clansmen and make the jump out. It’s risky given all the loose variables, but feasible.”

“If they’re able to hold out for fifteen more hours until we get there,” said the Commander in black and silver. She was absolutely radiating irritation at the way the morning’s activities had progressed, and she was focusing it solely on the bounty hunter’s presence.

“Zavi’s ship has weapons capability. It would be impossible for anyone to board without severely damaging that first,” answered Sana.

“It’s too dangerous for you to go alone, my lady,” said the Commander, “I volunteer to head a unit that will dispatch immediately.”

“No,” said Sana, sharply. “He’s my brother. I will go.”

There was obvious push back to her statement, most vehemently from her Commander, and the room was suddenly echoing with the complaints and dissent coming from her other blackguard.

“Enough!” Sana stood to her full height, voice stern and commanding. “We must prepare for the ritual. Leave us.”

The four other women all went silent and shuffled out of the room, taking turns to bow before exiting.

“Wait,” he said, suddenly flustered now that they were alone. “You’re not seriously considering _now_ is a good time for the ritual to – ”

“Of course not,” she huffed. “I just wanted them out of the room!”

“Oh,” he said under his breath, and bent over the data pad, with the intention of double-checking the hyperspace jump calculations. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her tinkering over the holoprojector.

“My commander, she is well intentioned. She doesn’t mean to offend."

“You inspire loyalty,” he said with a nod, not offended at all.

“Perhaps,” Sana considered. She pushed a button in the holoprojector. The blue digitized figure of the same Mandalorian with similar painted patterns to her armor blipped on.

“She especially didn’t want me to show you these.”

“Another day, another whisper that turned up nothing.” Zavi’s modulated voice came loud and clear through the machine. “The trail has gone cold, but I will keep my ear to the ground. Miss you every day, Sana, and your wit. There’s not much else in the form of entertainment around here. We will see each other soon.”

Another message started playing. Zavi again, speaking into his comm.

“…have hidden the coordinates of our temporary camp in the songs father used to sing to us. You know the one. I look forward to seeing you. Ralin has sent a landing party to meet you when you arrive…”

To say the bounty hunter’s curiosity was piqued would be an understatement.

The machine blipped, beeped, and another projection started playing. This one opened with the figure of Zavi laughing at something happening off-screen, his voice was warm even through the modulator of his helmet.

“Ralin and Dez have both challenged me to a wrestling match. I told them they’re fighting the wrong sibling. If they hope to learn a thing or two, it should be you.”

There’s boisterous laughter in the background, and Zavi’s helmet swiveled in its direction. “Dez says to bring more of that Corellian red too, he’s threatening to drink all of our stock. At least we can occupy ourselves for a while. As you can see, we are itching for some action. This planet is a skug hole. Hopefully our source will appear soon.”

Zavi leaned in close, voice dropping. “We are close, Sana, so close to having the prize of Mandalore back again. We will not have an outsider wield it again.”

In the last message she showed him, Zavi’s demeanor had changed entirely, he sat hunched over, radiating worry and distress. With a swift movement, and to the bounty hunter’s shock, the Mandalorian in the hologram removed his helmet. The man had close cropped hair, a clean-shaven face, and large eyes, though weary, brimming with emotion; they seemed to look directly out as if into the viewer. It made him shiver.

Holomessage-Zavi was scrubbing a hand across his worn face. “Shall it never end? Will we ever know peace? Our source has fled for his life! I tried, Sana, I tried! To offer him protection, but he would not take it. Something chases him. I fear someone out there knows we are looking for it. We are not out of danger yet. I will be in touch again soon.”

The holoprojector ended.

He tried to gauge the reaction of the woman beside him. But she was giving nothing away, resolutely statuesque. Such messages were private, meant for her eyes alone, and here she was, sharing them with him of all people. It was a grand show of trust on her part.

“You know the rest,” she said.

“You think they got to him?”

“Whoever _they_ are, even I can’t tell you. I don’t know myself. If his mission has been compromised...” But she shook her head, at a loss. She began to pace around the room.

“What is it? This artifact?”

Her head turned sharply in his direction, so fast he was ready to diagnose whiplash.

“Is it really worth all this?” he added hastily.

“Yes! It’s a very valuable item. If it’s in the wrong hands, then it’s bad. For everyone. It’s already been in the hands of an outsider and our people suffered for it. Consider that enough, bounty hunter.”

She continued her perambulations around the room for a few moments in silence. Then, exasperated, she sighed heavily, drawing the other Mandalorian in the room to give her a doubtful look. She tried valiantly to keep the worry out of her voice, but her nervous demeanor betrayed her.

“What would you do? If it was your clansman out there.”

Going into such a rescue operation would be perilous, deadly, not without more information, they both knew that.

“I wouldn’t care how risky,” he said, keeping his voice even, treading carefully. He was reminded of their conversation last night. “If it were my brother, I would choose to save him.”

“Then you’re as reckless as he is,” she said, sternly. Her arms her crossed before her and, and she rubbed at the underside of her chin, seemingly deep in thought. But there was a subtle, inviting dip to her helmet that belied the roving, probing stare behind her visor.

“He’d like you,” she said, finally.

Honestly, he didn’t know if he should feel flattered or not, but he took it as a compliment.

\---

It was the Armorer who approved their next move.

“You must hurry, if you hope to save him,” she had told them after hearing their plan. She went and took her smelting tools back up, and typical to a woman of few words, she turned away in a gesture of acquiescence, back to her forge.

“This is the Way.”

They whisked out, one at a time, skirting the edges of the town on Navarro to his ship, parked not too far away.

And so, with the ship gliding under autopilot, with ten hours left before their intended rendez-vous, two Mandalorians, one in gleaming purple, the other in faded russet, stood facing each other.

“Whenever you’re ready,” his mic crackled.

She went first for a chokehold. They stumbled around the cargo hold, trying to throw each other off balance. He gripped one hand around her closest leg and lifted her slightly off the ground. It was enough to destabilize her entirely and together they fell, to the tune of beskar dramatically clanging on the durasteel of the floor. Before he had enough wits to land his next hit, she kicked her left foot out, sending him flying. He quickly rolled to adjust but she went for him again. They dropped. More menacing clangs and grunts. She breathed heavily right into his ear, holding him face down.

“Any time you wanna let up, you let me know,” she taunted, leaning right into his audio receptors.

He grunted, and sent them rolling, and they moved across the cargo hold like that, bumping into crates and walls equally – that is until her helmet strikes sharply on the wall.

He won’t lie, he winced upon hearing that. A hesitation she apparently did not share, for she still managed to get the upper hand by grabbing his shoulders and planting her knees on his chest, and using her lower center of gravity and her powerful legs, swung his body around until he lay flat on his back. He got the wind knocked right out of him.

She adjusted to sit on him, thighs framing his face, her knees bent to pin his shoulders and arms. He flailed his legs wildly, uselessly, and they rocked and swayed, but did not budge; her butt seated right on his cuirass. He flopped his limbs in a gesture of defeat.

“Good,” he intoned, winded. “That was good.”

Her body was shaking, but he realized it was with laughter. She gathered herself and stood, putting out her hand to help him up.

They took their respective corners.

This time he took up the offensive, leaping right at her, connecting his knee to her armored chest. A loud grunt came from her as she stumbled backwards into the wall and he aimed another knock-out right at her gut. She doubled over, heaving, but blocked his next punch, first from his fist, and then a second one – his elbow missing her head by inches and colliding with the wall as she ducked under him.

Her shoulder jabbed the armpit of his outstretched arm and shoved, knocking him off balance. He reached what he could of her beskar chest plate as he stumbled sideways, hoping to take her down with him. They proceeded to bang around towards a large crate. The momentum of their bodies sent them both crashing, toppling over it, and landing in heap on the other side.

Momentarily stunned, he had to shake out his helmet. He heard her heavy pants next to him and was about to ask if all was good, when she came at him, arm raised. His helmet dinged, and sent his ears ringing as she punched him, once, then twice, while he blocked the worst with his forearms. On the third reel-back, he hooked her elbow and latching onto her shoulder, rolled them sideways. Somehow in the midst of their tussle, her legs came out of nowhere and she quickly had them wrapped around his neck before he knew what to do.

He struggled to get traction on his feet, sliding on his knees, and she locked her hips out and up, leaning far onto her own shoulders so their bodies made a triangle with the ground. The more he struggled and choked out a gasp, the more she seemed to tighten her thighs around his neck and helmet; that is, until his hands tapped thrice on her leg and she finally relaxed.

“Too much?” she asked, huffing and puffing, but relishing her second win in a row.

“Barely,” he rasped, shaking his shoulders out for good measure.

A bigger fighter didn’t mean a better fighter, he thought to himself. It was a piece of advice someone had given to him when he was training with the Mandalorians. He had always felt slighter than the others in his Tribe – like Paz who was large, heavy, and fought rough.

“You’ve got some dangerous moves,” he said, proudly. If his hands were lingering on her thighs, well neither one commented on that.

\---

“They told me I was delicate,” she explained to him.

They were taking a break from their workout; she was sitting on a bench against the wall adjusting her gloves and vambraces on her arms, while he was cleaning up the crates that had toppled over.

“My academic and intellectual pursuits confused my peers. I was a soft child, bookish. I grew up in a pacifist household. I was very small then, so I don’t remember much. When the wars came, we fled. Had to adapt. They mocked my aristocratic upbringing, my nose always in a data pad. So, I learned how to hit back, and twice as hard.”

Her visor sought his across the room. “No one called me delicate ever again.”

They plunged into companionable silence while he, finished with the crates, came over and sat on the bench next to her, their legs brushing against each other.

“The world is different now. It’s not so black and white,” she said. “ _You_ get that.”

He tilted his head at her, curious. Not finding her meaning apparent.

“I mean you operate within the grey,” she continued, gesturing with one hand to their surroundings on board the Crest. “Your bounty hunting.”

“I do it for the Tribe.”

There was nothing ambiguous about that and his tone suggested his thoughts on it exactly.

“It’s not a judgment. I just mean…hm.” She placed a hand on the russet armor piece on his thigh nearest her, as if to placate him. “I asked you the other day if you find pleasure in performing your duty.”

The metal glinted in the yellowy lights of the cargo hold as she ran her gloved fingers over the contrasting colors of silver dents against the dark red. The indelible marks of his profession had become parts of his own skin.

“Do you?” she asked.

“I have a certain skill set,” he said, feeling a tightness behind his eyes, like the beginnings of a headache. “And one has to eat.”

“Perhaps what I mean is that…what one wants for oneself is always at odds with what one must do. What one’s code is.”

“A code is there for the regulation of society.”

He could feel himself building a wall between them and wanting to withdraw behind it. And she must have felt it too because her hand slid off his thigh piece and went back into her lap, busying herself by pulling at a loose thread on her glove.

“I don’t doubt that. But how many codes do you follow? The Tribe’s? The Guild, yes? You are a Guild member?”

It came out, haughty, critical. It roiled his stomach and made him grimace beneath his armor. As if she was observing from a lofty distance the very things that defined him. His life was not going to be made, reduced, and downloaded onto some data chip for her to observe and collect. He wasn’t falling for that.

“What does it matter?” It came out sharper than he meant it to be.

She must have mistaken his words for a confrontation for she backed off immediately. “Nothing. It doesn’t. I was just – I’m curious…” but she went quiet.

He stood abruptly, moving to a corner of the hold. He tapped the armor on his chest in a kind of challenge and planted his feet.

“Again,” he said.

\---

Hours later, he was still smarting from their conversation earlier. Her words were intrusive, callous and he resented the implication behind them. A few exhausting rounds of physical fights in the cargo hold only served to distract him for a little while longer. Then they had shuffled awkwardly around each other afterwards, taking turns going up and down the ladder while one or the other occupied the vac tub. She played along to his cold demeanor, even accepted his offer of dehydrated food with an equally icy nod, her nose buried in a data pad.

As if she presumed to know the contradictions that ate at him! To so easily judge the limits in which he had to push himself in order to survive! As a younger man, he had done things – things he was not proud of, because he was angry, reckless, proud.

And now?

Well, now, he was tired, more than anything else. He often thought of retirement, but he still had his reflexes and his aim. Certainly, the scars on his body were a testament to his prolific career, to the dangers of crossing those blurred lines, of living and working in the murky, grey areas. If he was being honest, retirement daunted him.

What would he do? When he had spent so many years doing nothing else? He’d gotten this far. The Tribe counted on him. It was his duty. He used to say that with pride.

Why did it feel like ash in his mouth now?

All of these thoughts came to him jumbled in some form as he hid himself in his cockpit for a few hours in peace, occasionally napping, checking his computer systems, tinkering with the wiring behind the paneling, or unhelmeted, picking at ration bars and sipping water pumped from the ship’s containers. They were still gamely ignoring each other, until…

Until she decided to put an end to the stalemate. He heard her coming up the narrow ladder, and her soft call of acknowledgement on the other side of the cockpit doors. He’d already replaced his helmet, so confirmed her entrance.

“We’re coming up on the coordinates,” he informed her, voice regulated. He was staring so fixedly on his HUD screen, he thought he might burn a hole in it. She took a seat in one of chairs behind him.

“You seem better at this than me,” she said.

“What’s that?” Swiveling slightly to look at her over his shoulder. She was putting on a brave facade, but it was in the way she was swiping furiously at the datapad, one crossed foot jiggling uncontrollably. All the defensiveness trickled out of him, and he sighed heavily, knowing he had been unfair to her in these last few hours.

“There’s no shame in being afraid,” he said.

“Says the man with nerves of steel.” It was said in such a playful tone, it was almost like an apology.

“I don’t judge you for the choices you’ve made to survive,” she said, setting the data pad aside. “The Tribe is lucky to have you.”

He snorted. “I don’t think you would say that if you knew everything.”

The Crest’s computer chimed. He swiveled around to face the front, checking the screens again. “We’re coming out.”

The ship shook slightly as it dropped out of hyperspace, the blue lights of hyperspace giving way to darkness again. Outside the windows of the Crest loomed a large yellow and orange planet caught in a perpetual dust storm.

“Where are we?” She stood to get a better look, one hand resting on the back of his pilot’s chair.

“Still Outer Rim territory,” he confirmed on his computer. “I’m scanning for his ship.”

“No need, I see it!” She pointed dead ahead.

Sure enough, the outlines of a small shuttle was floating some distance ahead.

“They’re not answering comms. The computer tells me they have no power and their weapons are offline,” he said.

“Get closer,” she urged.

He piloted the Razor Crest towards it. There was no sign of any other ships nearby. It was eerily quiet.

Upon closer examination, they could see the Mandalorian-built Aka’jor class shuttle had been outfitted with weapons capabilities and, indeed, its engines were not firing, in fact one was smoking. It was evidently heavily damaged, drifting, but still largely intact, with no major hull breaches.

“Can we board her?”

He gave her a sidelong look. The damage was rather extensive, and his senses told him something wasn’t right. If they had been in a dogfight, then where was the other ship? He kept his computer’s scans running, but it wasn’t showing signs of any other company. They were alone.

“They might still be inside!” she cried out. “Please, there could be survivors!”

He navigated as close as he could, narrowly avoiding large chunks of metal floating around the ship and docked them just above a portal entrance.

“What’s taking so long?” she nervously asked beside him, hovering just behind his chair.

“I’m putting in the coordinates for our escape. At the first sign of trouble we’re making the jump out of here. No delays.”

Everything set in the cockpit, the two Mandalorians made their way down to the hold. He opened his weapons locker – full, and every piece freshly polished. Re-checking that his vambrace cannon was refueled and his vibroblade sheathed, he grabbed a couple detonators, and an extra modified blaster; then, he was ready.

She was awaiting him by the portal entrance in the floor.

“Here,” he said, handing her the extra blaster.

“I already have one.” She showed the smaller one sheathed on her hip, but at his insistence, replaced it with his, and all too eagerly, while he got to work setting up the portal.

So anxious she was to get onto her brother’s ship, that he had to grip her arm to prevent her from jumping down without him.

“Remember,” he squeezed her arm, hoping it reinforced the seriousness of their situation. “First sign of trouble and we’re out. Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” She nodded vigorously, jittery but deferential.

He unsheathed his blaster. “And I go first,” he said, and jumped down through the portal.

\---

The ship was dark. All its power was running on auxiliary. The HUD in his helmet told him life support systems were still operational, but dwindling, as all other functions had been bypassed to preserve it along with the ship’s stabilizers. There were a few floor lights that blinked on and off to act as emergency guides, but other than that and a red, flashing alarm system light, there was no sign of anybody or anything.

He landed with his pistol raised, ready to shoot. Once assessing that it was safe, he called up to her and she landed next; modified blaster also raised in her hand.

They moved together, quietly and stealthily towards one of the doors, leading to their left. She pressed a button on the paneled wall, and it opened with a loud sound. They stood, weapons pointing. Again, it was all quiet on the other side – this time looking into a hallway. There was more damage here. Pieces of the walls had come out and electrical wiring fell from the ceiling, sending sparks flying. The floor lights still illuminated their path, but at least that bright red flashing light was gone. The ship groaned around them.

“Stabilizers must be weakening,” she informed him.

He nodded once. All the more reason to hurry.

“Zavi?” she called into the hallway.

Nothing.

“How many onboard?” he asked.

“Just him and a crew of two.”

On the other end of the hallway, they could see the other door caught halfway shut with something stuck between its frame. When they approached, they saw what it was – a body, lifeless on the ground.

She gasped out loud and ran over to crouch down beside it. “Zavi?” she cried again, rolling the heavy beskar clad body over. More sparks from the damaged wires breaching from the walls doused the hallway in flashes of light and loud static, and he was able to make a quick survey of their surroundings.

There were strange markings on the walls, as if a battle had taken place – scorched holes from blaster shots, and something else…something that plugged a hole in his abdomen. Long gashes had struck on these walls but melted the durasteel almost instantly. He had never seen anything like it.

“No, no, no, no,” he heard her, and he rushed over, bending to get a closer look at the body. It was one of the crewmen, the black beskar armor almost invisible in the near darkness. There was a hole in his side where the beskar was weakest, a wound that had instantly cauterized. He didn’t recognize it as from a blaster shot.

“No,” she chocked. “No, oh, Ralin!” She fell over the body of her fallen comrade.

“We should keep moving,” he said, touching her shoulder. The ship made another groaning lurch.

She stumbled upon standing, and he helped her along. “Zavi!” she shouted into the next room. But they were met with more silence. Just the zapping of lights flashing and the creaking of the damaged ship.

There were more of those ominous markings on the walls. At the end of next bend, was another fallen body, with similar wounds to Ralin, and wearing the same all-black armor.

“Oh, no. No, Dez, please.” She clutched at him, looking at his wounds – a wide slash on his side.

“What happened here?” he asked her. But she wasn’t answering him for she had gone into shock. He had to shake her arm.

“Zavi!” she shouted again, more desperate, and then took off running. He followed close behind.

The final set of doors led to the cockpit of the small craft, and they opened with great difficulty. When they finally breached the cabin, it was in disarray. There were obvious signs of a large fight that had taken place here – shots that had ricocheted off the walls, furniture overturned for defensive purposes, and more of those long streaks of melted durasteel. The piloting dashboard was destroyed beyond recognition.

Their eyes fell upon it at the same time. A third body, in purple beskar, lay in a grotesque twisted position upon the floor. It was missing its head.

Sana fell to her knees. He, too, felt his legs wobble, and groped for the wall and leaned heavily onto it. She started crawling towards the body, moaning in horror. For then, he caught sight of the purple beskar helmet lying some feet away from the body. It had been cleanly severed from the body, right at the neck. The scene made his stomach churn.

The ship rocked and swayed again, more menacingly, and he jumped into action.

“We have to leave now! The stabilizers! Find the artifact and let’s go.”

But she remained unmoving over Zavi’s body. He went over and shook her violently. “The artifact! Where is it?”

She said something but it was muffled, still bent over her brother that he couldn’t catch it.

“Where is it?!” he cried again, frantic.

“It’s not here!” she snapped. “It’s gone! They have it!”

He inspected the room again, taking in the torn and shredded computer, the gashes on the durasteel, Zavi’s lifeless corpse, his head…

She sat up halfway suddenly. “We have to bring the bodies back! We have to. We can’t leave them. The Tribe can bury them, please. The beskar…”

He considered this. Every second was another moment wasted. The longer they stood on the ship, the more danger they would be in. Plus, he didn’t know if _they_ would come back. They were dangerously drifting into the gravitational field of the planet below, once those stabilizers failed, the ship would be in free fall into the atmosphere. Sana was visibly shaking and seemed unperturbed by the lurching of the ship as it floated through space, losing precious life support systems. Pitifully clutching at her brother’s armor, odd animalistic sounds coming from under her helmet of half chocked sobs and unarticulated words. It wrenched something deep inside him.

“Fine,” he said, loudly and sternly enough that it startled her. “We can carbon-freeze them until we get to Navarro and deliver them to the Tribe. But we have. To. Move. Quickly.”

He went over to Zavi’s body and pulled at it, so he could better grab the material of his cape, unsheathed his vibroblade and cut away at his cape. Then he went to where Zavi’s helmeted head was and picked it up, wrapping it quickly in the dark fabric so it was out of sight. With Sana’s help, they lifted Zavi’s body and dragged it as best they could out of the cockpit and towards the portal where they had entered. It was heavy work, made all the more difficult in the reeling spacecraft.

At the base of the portal entrance, they paused, looking up. It looked farther away than he remembered, even Sana wilted beside him.

“It’s hopeless,” she grumbled next to him, shifting Zavi’s body to get a better hold across his torso.

“We’re getting off this ship,” he said through gritted teeth, gruffly grasping the scruff of her cloak while she swayed. “Drag over the others. I’ll think of something.”

It was enough to get her to move again, and she gently laid her brother down on the ground, then scurried off to get the bodies of her clansmen. He climbed up onto his ship, snatching various ropes and nets he used to hold the crates in place. With these he fashioned a pulley system to lift the bodies into the hull of the Crest. It took a while longer than he would have liked, but eventually he was able to hoist all three bodies onto the cargo hold of the Razor Crest, and then place them individually in carbonite.

The systems on Zavi’s ship was short-circuiting, and once Sana was done, she quickly clambered up through the portal door and he shut it behind her. He ran up the ladder to start the process of extraction and was thrown from it as the Crest gave a violent lurch.

“What’s happening?!” she yelled after him.

Once he got in the cockpit, his worst nightmare was confirmed by his screeching computer notifications. The stabilizer system on Zavi’s Aka’jor finally collapsed and was pulling the Crest down with it. He fired up his engines, flipping the necessary switches to detach from Zavi’s shuttle ship. It was rocky at first, the Crest groaning all the while, trying to right itself while attached to the dead weight of the other ship. Once they disengaged, he was able to expeditiously steer them away, jetting out of the atmosphere of the large, stormy dust planet. Just as he was about to punch in the preset coordinates to make the hyperspace jump, the Crest rocked violently, and he was nearly thrown from his pilot’s seat.

A shadow of a small black ship swooped over the windows in the cockpit. It happened so fast, he barely registered what it could be, but he knew what it meant. This time someone _was_ shooting at them.

The Razor Crest shook as another round of shots came through, glancing off his ship’s exterior. He winced, calculating the damage being done. A dogfight this far from civilization spelled trouble, they could be floating dead like Zavi’s ship if they tried to hold out any longer. The small ship made another pass overhead, flying low, and fast – such effortless maneuverability must be a TIE fighter, but it was gone before he could get any visual confirmation. The computer was beeping loudly, trying to get him a shot. He aimed his ship’s blasters at it, firing off a round before it made another turn back to the ship. But the TIE was fast, dodging the Crest’s weapons and spinning away.

They must have been waiting for them, hiding in the planet’s stormy atmosphere away from any ships’ scanners, only to jump out at the last minute – like a predator hunting its prey. They must have been the ones to set off Zavi’s distress beacon, killing everyone on board in the process – knowing someone would come to answer it.

Instead of preparing for another round of shooting, he gripped the steering rod that took him to hyperspace and slid it into the forward position. Around him the Crest wobbled, then made the jump.

\---

It was awhile before he was able to calm down and regulate his breathing. They were cruising through hyperspace, safe for the time being, but his mind was alight.

He took his time, checking the ships computers on the assessment and extension of the damage from the TIE fighter’s guns. Nothing too serious, which was lucky, but they were going to have to stop for a refuel at some time before Navarro. There was a station he knew of not far from a jump sight, and even with their fuel supply could make it. Might even get the ship planet side to get a better look at the exterior damage. There was also the matter of getting some credits in order to pay for a refueling and any repairs.

For the time being, Navarro and the burial of Sana’s clansmen, would have to wait. He went down the ladder to give her the update.

She was tucked away in a far corner of the hold, sitting on the floor. In her hands, she cradled the dark purple beskar of Zavi’s helmet, still partially wrapped in the cape. It appeared so similar to her own, but, and he saw now, with slightly different markings along its frontal design. Her forehead was delicately crouched over it, hugging it between her knees. Silent sobs racked at her shoulders.

He wanted to tell her words of comfort, but he had none, so he held back, delaying his approach, watching her.

She must have sensed his presence because she spoke up. “I should have been there. It was my duty to protect him. I should have – I –”

Her words broke as she tried to contain the deep well of emotion bubbling up. She sniffled loudly. “He was too young to remember the old ways. He only ever knew war. It was always revenge for him. I should have known. Oh, my little brother! My baby brother!”

He knelt beside her, managing to take the helmet out of her shaking hands, shrouding it in the cape. “The Tribe will bury him,” he said. “He will be honored with a warrior’s death. Come, you should rest.”

Somehow, adrift as she was, he succeeded in getting her to stand and follow him. The cowl of her cape was wet and darkly stained by her tears. Gently, he coaxed her to sit on the bunk. Her submissiveness lasted but a few moments, for she was suddenly defiant, and stood abruptly.

“The ritual! We haven’t done the ritual!” she said, all excited. Her hands came up and began pulling on his armor. “While, I’m still fertile. The Tribe is counting on us!”

“Hey, hey, hey.” He took her trembling hands in his, stricken like a wounded creature. “You just lost your clansmen. I think the Tribe will understand if you take a day off.”

“Yes, the Tribe,” she repeated it to herself, half under her breath, and collapsed back down on the bunk. “They’ll understand.”

She set about the task of undressing. Her boots proved to the be first roadblock, and she struggled with the laces, which knotted further even as she pulled at them. Deciding to help, he crouched down in front of her and placed the offending boot on his thigh, working to unlace it for her.

“Will you stay?”

Smoothing one hand up her calf, he cupped faintly behind her knee, tugging gently upwards, so she could lift her leg. He was careful, tender, all too aware of the sensual closeness of their bodies. The boot popped off with little resistance.

“Will you stay?” she asked again, her voice so full of pathos it stirred him. “At least until I fall asleep.”

“Yes,” he answered.

He did the same for the other boot, again bracing her behind the knee and she sighed softly, holding onto his shoulder for balance while lifting her other leg.

Taking care of her cape and gloves first, she began to undress, demagnetizing and unstrapping each piece. The task being so intrinsic to their people that even the motions of it were untarnished by the force of her grief, and the ritualization of it, her reverent handling and placement, seemed to soothe her. First the smaller thigh armor, the pauldrons, then the ones around her waist and hips, and finally her chest and back plates, each piece touched with such grace and veneration. Once the armor was stacked neatly in a corner of the bunk, she settled down under the blanket to face the wall with her knees tucked, and one arm cushioned under the pillow.

He hit the switch that dimmed the main lights of the cabin and the cargo hold, and in the semi-darkness relaxed at the end of the bunk, even propped up his legs to get more comfortable. The bottom of her bare feet, sticking out from the blanket, touched his thigh – warm and oh-so-small. Her shoulders were moving evenly, he can see as much; sobs paused, for now. His helmet made a soft thud as he leaned his head back against the bunk’s wall. Nothing but the hum and whirring of the engines around them for company.

But when he closed his eyes, all he could see were the horror scenes from Zavi’s ship. Those injuries…he couldn’t get it out of his mind. He had never seen wounds like that, let alone know of a weapon that could do that. It deeply unsettled him. And those burn marks on the walls. He knew blasters well enough to know they couldn’t do damage like that either. Something struck at those walls, just as something equally deadly sliced off Zavi’s head in one foul swoop. It had to be something powerful…something dangerous…and so valuable, knowledge of its existence would get you killed.

“This artifact,” he probed into the dark. “It’s a weapon.”

She shifted lightly beside him; her toes curled into the material of his pants.

“Yes.” She paused to weigh her next words “That’s all I can tell you. Do you understand? Look at what they did.”

“They knew you would show up. That TIE was expecting us. Which means Imps. They’ll be looking for you next. If you could just tell me more about –”

“No!” It echoed in the hull of his ship.

“The more you know, the more danger you will be in,” she said with genuine fear. “You have to trust me on that.”

“I do,” he said, and wonders how it was not obvious before.

They lapsed into silence again, one suspended with a meaning he doesn’t spare a thought for – except that it feels gentle, forgiving. The nature of their relationship was grounded in being deeply vulnerable with each other in ways unfamiliar to him – how they were thrust together in this situation despite their respective positions, like the entanglements of binary star systems. Navigating it has been as convoluted as charting his hyperspace jumps.

“Sana,” she said. “I ought to have given it earlier. My name is Sana. You may call me that.”

He ashamedly fiddled with his glove.

“I know you already knew,” she said after a beat. “But with today, I–” Something plugged in her throat on the next words, a kind of half-sob wracked her body.

While he didn’t have the words to soothe her, the urge to reach out and touch her weighed oppressively on his chest, as heavy as beskar. Try as he might, it overwhelmed him.

Later, when he knows she had finally fallen asleep, he left the bunk and went back to his pilot’s chair. The flickering blue and silver lights of hyperspace are able to lull him to sleep; he has often had nights just as lonely as this and so drifted off easily upright in his chair. He said her name out loud in the empty room.

“My name is Din.” He said, like it’s for all of space to hear.

The only answer is deep, black silence.


	5. Chapter 5

His answer was a very clear, no. She ignored it anyway. He hates it when his orders are disobeyed.

“I’m coming with you.”

It’s only been eight hours since they’ve flown out of danger. Nearly seven since she cried herself to sleep.

Their detour has brought them to a refueling station on a small, out of the way planet. It’ll be a quick in and out, he hoped. Boots on the ground, survey the damage to the Crest, refuel, and that’s it. That’s final.

They land with little fuss, though his landing gear seemed a little wobbly, he made a mental note to get the hangar mechanic to give it a look. The planet is rainy, gloomy, and dark. Not conducive to one already grieving – Sana. He has to remind himself to use her name now. But again, his orders for her rest were flatly ignored.

He was about to toss his last batch of credits to the mechanic (some aquatic species he can’t remember the name of) ogling the Crest, and making a grimace at the level of damage, when she – Sana – interrupted and handed over her own pouch of money, paying for half of the fees upfront. She shrugged it off, muttering something about owing him anyway, and he doesn’t want to take it – thinking of the bodies of her clansmen in his cargo hold.

How many more sacrifices must she pay for?

He intended to make a few pit-stops for supplies, more dehydrated food – the mechanic has promised to fill his water tank too, so he’s set there – and some miscellany. It’s a bleak little planet. He’s only grateful the rain isn’t acidic, just dull. Ordinary. Routine. The usual.

Until it absolutely isn’t.

It started when Sana wanted to send a holomessage to her blackguard about the state of their mission, and there’s a local station head with the right equipment in the town area.

“I’m not staying cooped up anymore,” she told him, following him down the ramp.

She’s hiding the true extent of her grief, pointedly ignoring any debriefing on the state of their mission. Choosing to distract herself with a promise of, well, anything else, and he can’t fault her for wanting it.

They part ways while he runs his errands, agreeing to meet at a local cantina at a later time. Perhaps they can duck out of the rain for a bit, get a real hot meal and a private room for a change. It’s a luxurious thought, especially after standing in the rain so long, while overseeing the muddy amphibious beasts of burden transport the last of his supplies on board the Crest. That done, his credit pouch noticeably lighter, he made his way back into town, passing large light-gray colored buildings. Cloaked figures avoid him as he walked past. The busy pattering of feet passing by, somber and suspicious.

Eyes follow him as soon as he enters the dingy cantina. His beskar and durasteel glittered with the rain, and the silty streets darkened his boots. He idly thinks there might even be a job on the planet – someone always needed their affairs in order. Perhaps he could see about getting a bounty, pay Sana back for her investment in his ship’s repairs.

The bartender was an Aqualish, with a sagging, bald head and listless four eyes that flit nervously around as the Mandalorian approached the bar. Other unsavory characters gazed at him, but none approach.

Sana joined him soon enough. If the site of one Mandalorian on this small planet was enough to attract unwanted attention, two made things even more interesting. There’s a noticeable hush among the other patrons of the cantina. The small crowd parted around her allowing her entrance.

“You okay?” He asked her as soon as she neared him.

She nodded only once. “The Tribe has offered to begin funeral preparations. They’ll be ready upon our return to Navarro.”

“I asked how _you_ were doing.”

It took her a good moment to answer. “I’ve – I’ve been better.”

He watched her body, looking for clues to the state of her mind but he knew better than to take her word for it. She was observing the clientele, her mannerisms aloof, unobtrusive.

“You managed to find the seediest of outposts.”

He shrugged, following her gaze. “I appreciate the discretion it offers. It’s a good place to lie low.”

She leaned against the bar top, resting her arm on it in a practiced gesture of ease, very nearly mirroring him. Her voice drops to a low whisper, but his audio sensors pick it up. “That Aqualish has been cleaning the same glass the whole time I’ve been here. I think we have more than prying eyes to worry about.”

“Noticed that too. I asked him about a gig.”

“So you are looking for work?”

No sooner are the words out of her mouth when they both sense the approach of the drunkard before either comment on it. It’s a human, ruddy faced and sopping wet, either from the amount of drinks that missed his mouth or the dismal weather. He leaned over the bar top, waving wildly to get the attention of the Aqualish behind the counter and very nearly knocked Sana with his hand, who stiffens at the close contact.

“Mandalorians,” he drawled grinning crookedly.

The two of them eye him. He’s a slight fellow, not much of a threat, but talking way louder than necessary. More an irritation than anything.

“Wassa–” the drunkard hiccoughed, “wassa Mandalorian doin’ round here anyhoo?” The man’s words slur, and he swayed, squinting at the purple covered visor closest to him. “I’ve been to Mandalore, did some smuggling there meself. Nice place. Once up on a time.”

The bounty hunter, knowing the line of when verbal harassment crosses straight into a physical fight, rested a twitching hand on his thigh near the blaster, just in case.

“Do you know what this is?” The smuggler dangled a bottle of clear liquid in Sana’s face. He took a quick sip of it. “Oh, that burns!”

The line of Sana’s back went straight, and her head angled just slightly towards the smuggler. They both caught a whiff of the strong liquor as the smuggler’s hand danced around while he gestured with it, the contents sloshing dangerously – a distinctly floral scent, almost nauseatingly sweet.

“He’s just trying to rile you up,” he said in a near whisper to her, angling his body so he could pull his blaster out without having to cause more of a scene.

Sana’s fist clenched. “Tihaar,” she said.

“So she does speak,” quipped the drunk smuggler, loudly as if announcing it to the bar. The other patrons have all turned away, pretending not to notice. Even the Aqualish at the bar, his four eyes blinking rapidly, has turned away, occupying himself with another dirty glass to clean with his equally dirty rag.

“Tihaar,” Sana repeated. “Mandalorian liquor.”

“That’s right. Did a few runs back in the day bringing crates of these off world. Now it’s about as rare as the beskar. You know, I always asked Mandalorians the same…the same question and I never got a straight answer,” the pink man garbled, and he actually had the audacity to swat at her armor. “Does it stay on when you fuck?”

Later, Sana would deny remembering exactly who threw the first punch; but he remembered – it was definitely her. She got the drunk square on the nose, then took him by the scruff of his collar to wipe the counter of the bar with his bleeding face.

The bounty hunter only sighed heavily. So much for discretion.

That is until someone pointed a blaster at him, digging it into his neck where the armor is soft. Both Mandalorians freeze; Sana’s fist hung in mid-air above the smuggler’s face.

“Pretty beskar. Bet it’ll catch a _pretty_ price out here.” A voice said over his shoulder.

He held in a growl, ground his teeth. He really wished he has his pulse rifle to obliterate them. The drunk, though bleeding heavily from his nose and crouching on the ground, was laughing hysterically. Too late, they realized the ruse.

He cocked his helmet just enough to see the face of a young, male Twi’lek, yellow skin and fangs glinting, holding the blaster on him steadily.

“I feel like this is the beginning of a bad joke. Two Mandalorians walk into a bar…” says a second voice. It comes from a Rodian, approaching them, blaster raised also. It tossed a credit coin at the drunk, who, giggling, makes to leave, but not before hissing at Sana’s stoic face. A spittle of blood lands on her visor.

The Rodian kicked at the drunk man’s backside as he scrambled away.

“How much you think we can get for both?” The Rodian asked the Twi, nudging his partner.

Sana must sense it too, he wondered. These two are new at this, a couple of careless upstarts. While he privately seethes, he adjusted his stance, angling his body to partially block her from the two criminals while trying to catch her eye. She looks almost bored. He watched as the Rodian touched the armored plate across her chest with the barrel of his blaster, and he flares up in response. He already has a plan brewing, if he can just separate the two thieves enough to –

Sana moved first. Lightning fast, she grabbed the barrel of the Rodian’s blaster, hilting it upwards. It fired over her shoulder, very nearly glancing off her helmet, and she ducked and spun.

The momentary distraction gave him a moment to knock the blaster aimed at his own neck, and shoot the Twi in the torso, who falls, clutching his side, weapon skidding to the ground. Beside him, the Rodian, smoking from a wound, also falls dead next to him, Sana standing over him, blaster raised.

A tense moment follows, in which they think the rest of the cantina is about to erupt into violence. The moment bristled, precarious, a flare up seemingly imminent. But there’s only an awkward cough from a table nearby, and some shuffling. No one else moved, they all turn back to their drinks.

He surveyed the scene of the two very dead thieves before them. “Thought we were gonna lay low,” he mumbled. Sana only snorted.

* * *

Two cloaked figures drudged through the muddy streets. It was easy to get lost, what with the oppressive clouds, the similar looking grey buildings, the dark, meandering alleyways with narrow turns and recesses into the dark. They couldn’t tell if the sun had set or not, for any difference between night and day had vanished and they existed in a world of perpetual gray.

They kept their helmets down, both in silent contemplation as they headed back to the Crest, the rain pattering, drowning out almost any other sound, or any thought really, drumming incessantly on his helmet, a cosmic background noise that was starting to piss him off. While the cloaks and under-armor were water resistant, the humidity made the hair stick uncomfortably to his neck under his helmet.

Meanwhile the beskar caught the attention of those around them. He was nervous after leaving the cantina, wanting to get back to the Crest as quickly as possible.

She’s quiet, keeping her own counsel but her inner disquiet was palpable.

“Don’t you give me the cold shoulder. I’ve had about enough of your silent treatment,” she finally said.

He only shook his head, his thoughts too muddled.

“If you’re considering that job that Aqualish offered,” she continued, still harshly. “Here’s my advice: don’t.”

“I’m a bounty hunter, he offered a job.”

“You’re so stubborn! If it’s a question of credits, I already said I would pay for everything.”

He wanted a hot meal and an even hotter bath, and probably something strong and numbing to wash it all down with. There’s so much more he wants to say, but he can’t. There was a growing list of things unsaid between them.

“When we get back to Navarro…” he started to say.

But he doesn’t finish, for a shadow fell upon them and a pair of arms wrapped around Sana’s neck. The two fell sharply to the ground.

He reached for his blaster, ready to fire, but it’s a tangle of limbs in mud and he can’t get a clear shot.

“Let’s see what you look like!”

They both recognize the voice – it’s the drunk smuggler from the cantina. The one who spit in Sana’s visor. His arms wrapped around her neck, gripping her in a chokehold and he’s trying to yank off her helmet.

“Come on, just a little peak,” the man taunted.

Sana kicked and flailed, livid. Her arms are locked on the other man’s, preventing him from moving; the beskar rattling on her head. There’s a sudden loud crack of bone breaking; a head wheeled back. She had knocked her helmet against his nose, no doubt breaking it for the second time that day. He falls away, going limp and it’s enough for Sana to get herself free. Instead of standing she dove after him with a muted curse, sat right on the wounded man’s body and started punching. As hard as she can.

He thinks she might kill him. While the drunkard initially had the element of surprise on his side, he was nearly unconscious after taking beskar to the face. So, the bounty hunter with a sigh, did what he had to – grabbed Sana by the scruff and hauled her off the slighter man, dragging her away.

They leave him in the mud, still breathing ragged, but bloodied and limp.

She’s squirming under his grip, which is like steel on her cowl. They make it back, luckily, to the Razor Crest with no more interruptions. The ramp unfolded in the hangar with a press of a button on his vambrace, and they make their way up it, finally relieved to be getting out of the rain. He punched the settings for Ground Protocol; the large doors close and lock behind him.

She’s pissed off, stalking around the hold, shaking off the mud and rain.

“I had him!” She seethed, palpably vibrating. A hurricane amped up by the adrenaline of the street fight and the shame of the near unmasking. “He was mine!”

She shoved at his chest plate, then does it again, but he knocked her arms aside. He’s ready to get off this stinking planet and started climbing up to the cockpit. But she stopped him, pulling him by the cape off the small ladder.

“It’s not your place to defend _my honor_!” She practically spat at him and shoved him again, harder.

“Stop it. You’re not angry at me,” he said.

She growled and they tussled some more, but he wasn’t having it.

“What?! Going to call me delicate,” she yelled.

At her next lunge, he’s able to crowd her against the wall and placed a strong forearm across her chest to hold her in place.

“Enough,” he said gruffly.

She’s still struggling mightily against his hold on her. He kicked her legs apart and presses all his weight into her. The moment they hit the ground, she’ll be the stronger fighter, so he kept her pinned, boots scraping on the floor.

“My mission right now is to bring you back to Navarro,” he said, leaning in close, nearly butting their own helmets together. “I can’t do that if you’re starting trouble.”

“What do you care?!”

She took cheap shots at his helmet, punching and snarling; he lets her, better to get it out of her system. Her hips stuttered uselessly against him as she battled, until suddenly she gasped out loud and stilled.

There’s a sharp sting to the air between them. Her breathing is shallow and heavy through her nose. She attempted to dislodge his forearm against her and it only caused her to move along the same piece of armor on his thigh. This time a strangled noise issued forth under her helmet, and she rubbed herself against him, experimentally, like getting at an itch she can’t quite scratch.

A tremor of heat diffused through his body, prickled along his skin and settled in his groin. Pitching his leg just enough, the top of his thigh armor ground roughly, deliberately between the V of her legs.

“Is this what you want, huh?” He said with a coarseness that rumbled in his chest.

She lets out a hoarse sound, like a growl, fisting what material she can get on him, and rolling her hips into his movement. He can feel the sheer power of her rippling underneath him. It’s intoxicating. They rock back and forth like this for a while, until she’s panting heavily.

“Do it, you – you c-,“ she stammered. The word “coward” clawed its way out of her throat. “Just do it.”

He tensed, jaw clenched, at the implication of her meaning, the vague undertone of a threat, mixed with her rage, fueled by her grief. It’s relentless and he’d hate to stand in the way. It doesn’t help either that his cock stiffens. Whatever high Sana’s riding, he’s sure as kriff going to follow her through it.

No one even breathed another word as he slid a hand down her body to cup at her clothed mound, palming her through the many layers. Her hips spasmed again, rocking against him, and he earned a kriffing whimper for his efforts. Keeping one arm still pressed against her clavicle, right under the lip of her helmet, he clumsily undid her utility belt to get at the fastenings, caked with mud, beneath.

While the helmet can filter most smells out, he catches a whiff of damp leather, mixed with weapons grease and blaster fire on his own glove as he dipped it beneath the lip to tear it off with his own teeth. His clothing was heavy with mud and, with the dampness, chaffed under his armor. The glove dropped from his mouth and onto the floor where it’s instantly forgotten because he’s sliding his hand into her breeches, bypassing her underclothes and slipping right onto overheated skin. Not at all surprised to find it slick down there, he spreads the moisture around, stroking it along the seam and around her clit.

The word ‘ritual’ wasn’t even mentioned. They’ve abandoned any thought of that, or the Tribe.

They both shiver as he a slipped a finger inside her, twisted and curled it. Her lower body kept up a steady rhythm, just trying to get more friction, more heat…just _more_. So, obligingly, he added another of his large fingers and the stretch of her around him makes _him_ groan; the tightness of her starting a fire that blazed right through him.

He’s hard. Oh, he’s so hard, it tented uncomfortably in his breeches and digs it into her hip socket. Sana feels it for sure, but doesn’t reach for it, doesn’t acknowledge it, just grunted and wheezed while he moved his fingers. The angle is off; there’s not enough space; her breeches and under garments keep getting in the way, riding up her hips, chaffing on his wrist. But he doesn’t let up, satisfied in watching her shake and moan. It’s dizzying, watching her come undone like this, come apart like this. On just his two fingers, knuckle deep.

Her head lolled to one side with absolute abandon, squirming underneath his forearm, as he twists and scissors, circles the pad of his thumb against her most sensitive spot in a teasing way before pressing the rough heel of his palm there. The thick lines of decorum that she has so carefully and starkly drawn around herself have begun to blur – burning with fury, adrenaline, and lust.

It’s mere minutes later, when he feels a significant fluttering around the two fingers buried insider her. She’s almost there, and he edges her closer. She’s clutching one hand to the cowl around his neck, knuckles surely white under her gloves. One of her legs at some point, he doesn’t remember when, has wrapped up and around, holding around his waist and she’s driving her hips erratically into his hand.

Then, with a gritty, desperate shout he felt her squeeze around him, and more hot liquid oozed onto his fingers; he kept pumping into her squelching, clenching sex. She rides it out, swearing, until she was a breathless, exhausted mess.

After a few beats, he shifted away. Relaxing his forearm, still has pressed against her chest as he withdraws his fingers. Her legs wobbled and shook, and she relies more on the wall to keep her upright. With a wild thought, he dipped his glistening fingers under his helmet. It smells sharp, musky. He tastes it. Slightly salty, slightly sweet. It lingered on his tongue.

She’s stopped breathing, or seemingly has, because she’s gone still as a statue while he licked his fingers clean, keeping his eyes on her. He feels a little drunk with this power, like his armor is too tight. Plus, he’s still got a raging erection. Palming with his free hand, and hissing at the contact, he can feel the heat of it through the layers of clothing and gloves.

“Go on. I wanna see.” She’s speaking, now, all rough around the edges, and can’t seem to stop swallowing. “I wanna watch you finish.”

He whined at that thought, mouth dry, pausing only to consider how exactly that was going to happen.

“Touch yourself,” she ordered.

It banished any thoughts of etiquette completely. Now was not the time for decorum. Not when he was so flushed with want, it ached.

So, his belt clattered to the ground and with a sigh of relief, he took himself in hand, tugging at his leaking cock. The cargo hold echoed with the sounds of his hand slicking up and down his length. He knew how to get himself off, what with all that adrenaline and frustration coursing through him. A few squeezes and a twist there, and, when he looked up… her visor was on him, her eyes were on him, watching…

He shook and came with a groan, smashing his T-visor into the soft part of her armor, between her pauldron and helmet as stars burst behind his closed eyes – color and light. He had to blink multiple times to adjust himself to it. He was aware of her breathing normally under him, a gentle rising and falling, and he managed after a while, to match his own belabored breaths to it. Other sensations also kicked in, most prominently, a stickiness between his legs and in one clenched fist, but also a hand rubbing at a patch of bare skin at the nape of his neck, exposed by the angle of his helmet; he trembled all over from overstimulation. With great difficulty and making sure to keep his wet fist away from both their armor, he pulled himself away from her. The loss of her body warmth was immediately evident, and he frowned upon noticing it.

Her hands were gentle again, exploring the soft and hard parts of him, all the fight gone from her. He understands that they have crossed some kind of hidden line and had entered uncharted territory.


	6. Chapter 6

Setting in the coordinates for their jump back to Navarro, he’ll be glad to never see rain for the rest of his days, or this dreary planet and its kind. He still wants a shower, a proper one, not a quick towel rinse or sonic, he thinks while the blue lights of lightspeed make up the view out the transparisteel in the cockpit. The Crest is purring along in hyperspace. They’ve got hours left by his count. When he comes down to the hold to give her the update, she was pulling something out of a pocket on her utility belt. It’s a glass bottle with clear liquid contents.

“You didn’t.”

“He wasn’t gonna enjoy it.”

“Because you broke his face.”

“He smuggled it. I’m merely returning it to its owners.”

“Don’t you think we have enough people in the galaxy coming for us.”

She flashed a look at the three bodies of her clansmen preserved in carbonite on the other side of the hold, and he instantly regrets the comment. She’s boxed her grief in that carbonite too, he realized – frozen it solid.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“All the more reason to drink it.”

That was nearly an hour ago. Now, they’re sitting back to back, pieces of their beskar fanned out around them, capes and outer clothing drying on a rack, stripped of their armor, scrubbing at their boots – caked in mud, in seemingly every stitch.

She’d become too comfortable in the comradery that had cemented between them. They were finding it easier and easier to navigate. She talked openly about her brother Zavi while they did their chores.

“He was such a pest when we were younger. So annoying then, following me around, asking questions all the time, wanting to hang out with me and my friends, despite being seven years younger. It irritated me to no end. I wanted nothing to do with him. Zavi was just a kid then; he didn’t know better. I suppose he looked up to me. And I pushed him away. Thought him pesky in the way that younger brothers are.”

His throat tightened, listening to her talk.

“I wouldn’t know,” he said to her over his shoulder. Then, with all the earnestness he could muster: “I am sorry that we couldn’t save them.”

He’d been meaning to say that a while ago, and he was surprised when it released a flood of emotion on his part, which he held back with a strong bite on his tongue and a clenched jaw.

“In a way, I’ve been preparing myself for it for a long time.” She unscrewed the cap to the bottle of tihaar, and, while he ducked his head down and averted his eyes, she took a sip, maneuvering it under her helmet. Tipping it just enough to splash a little into her mouth.

“Oh, you could degrease your engine with this,” she said, gasping. “You sure you won’t have some?”

He spied her hand in his periphery, offering the bottle. The floral scent of the liquor as potent as her offer.

“Maybe later,” he said.

“Oh, come on, one sip won’t kill you.”

“Are you going to keep seeking the artifact?”

His words came out as bluntly and unheeded as the firing of blaster shots across the room. He was never one for a bedside manner anyway. It had the intended effect. The tihaar was suddenly not the only thing Sana found hard to swallow.

“Mm, new rule. If you want to ask a question, you have to take a sip.”

He grumbled audibly. “How much have you had?”

“Oop, that sounds like a question. You owe me two sips.”

He’s walked this fine line before, in his youth, sought creative ways around the strict adherence of his Creed, either in moments of comfort or deep insecurity. Then reality settled in, and he had always quickly walked back from that line, seeking never to return it. There’s something new between them that he’s unclear on, wants clarification, but doesn’t know how to ask.

“Fine.” He reached for the bottle from her outstretched hand.

Firstly, checking that she is indeed facing away from him, he shifted the lip of his helmet just enough to tip the bottle. A few drops land in his mouth and a couple dribble down his chin. The taste was strong, like being hit by a mudhorn and he gagged on it.

“Slowly now,” she encouraged him. They’re sitting so close he can feel her shoulders moving before he hears her laughter.

The drink dropped like acid in his empty stomach and he grimaced.

“Well?” He prompted, going back to his rags and polish. “Are you?”

She’s shuffling her armor pieces around, avoiding the inevitable. “It was always his idea to go after it. I encouraged him, knowing the dangers. The task falls to me now.”

She sighed, then abruptly, her hand shot out, searching for his beside them. “I have a question.”

And that was that. She’d moved on.

She took a longer than necessary sip. “What color eyes do you have?”

“Really? That’s your burning question?”

“If you don’t answer, you have to take a drink.”

“You’re making up the rules as we go along,” he said. Thigh piece was done, as shiny as ever, so he moved onto his vambraces. “And they’re brown.”

“Brown?”

“It was your question.” There’s a breeziness in his voice that sounds unfamiliar, even to him. That tihaar is strong stuff indeed.

“Ok, your turn then, brown eyes.”

She must have been more of a lightweight than him, that or she’s snuck more sips than her little game required. Then again, she was the one who stole the liquor off that drunk smuggler, and it was some kind of galactic miracle that they were not currently being chased across the systems for that transgression alone.

He reached his right hand out, just beyond the periphery of his sight; her own arm, moving too fast, feeling too loose and too good, darted out and knocked against his, sloshing the precious clear liquor.

“Careful,” he said, brushing her knuckles as he took the flask from her before they lost any more.

“Now you ask a question?” She prompted him.

He had tons of burning questions. All of which he briskly puts a sharp line through, striking them from his mind. Whether for her propriety or his own, he’s not sure. He could ask about her eyes, or her hair…which he occasionally, far too often for his own comfort, has wondered about.

They’re close enough to touch, back to back, but the distance between them at times felt immense, like an abyss, an endless traverse through space and time.

“Uh…I don’t have one…”

“Ask me about my eyes.”

“Ok, what color are your –?”

“They’re green," she interrupted him, the liquor loosening her up. "Like a, like a hazel-y green. Yeah. Where’s your sip? And it’s my turn, I have another question. Pass it back.” Her impatience was evident.

“I thought tihaar was meant to be drunk slowly.”

“We’re going slowly at the rate your taking in passing the bottle back. So, send it over. Ok, my question is…my question is…Oh! What’s your favorite pastime? And don’t say bounty hunting. There must be _something_ else you look forward to all day.”

“Not having to answer these questions.”

A jolt of pain went up his side – her elbow had gone into his ribcage, and none too gently.

“That’s my answer,” he rebutted.

“You’re no fun. It’s your turn.”

And their little game continued.

There were also other topics he’d immediately struck from his mental list: her past, the artifact– he knows she won’t answer those. Her life on Mandalore. How she got that scar on her leg. Her mate.

“Now there’s a time limit on asking questions. You take too long, you take a swig, bounty hunter.” It’s amazing how she can make it sound affectionate. She’s rummaging among her armor pieces – must be moving on to another one to polish. Meanwhile, he’s dawdled on his end.

“Don’t think – just ask!”

“Do you ever – oh!”

They both go quiet.

“No,” she said, pausing slightly. “Go ahead.”

He’s still stalling. “Do you ever think of him?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” she actually laughed.

“Your mate,” he specified. “Do you ever…think…of him…?”

The jovial mood deflated between them.

“You mean, do I think of him when we’re…together?” She’s implying the ritual.

He bowed his head, rubbed at a particularly stubborn swath of mud.

“He’s been dead for nearly four years. It feels like a lifetime ago,” she said finally. “I mean, yes and no. I think of him at times. But I’m not _comparing_ , if that’s what you’re asking.”

And she snorted.

All the air he’d been holding emptied out of his belly, even his shoulders relaxed. He found that he could lean back and touch her shoulder with his. She had stripped off her over-layers, to a white tank top that left little to the imagination. When she swung her arm around the muscles in her arms flexed. Not only was he grateful for the helmet’s defenses but also that they were back to back.

“But you must miss him?”

“Aha! Follow up question: take a swig.”

“That’s not a rule!”

“The swig!”

He does, tipping it under his helm, then passed the bottle back to her. She doesn’t take it right away, instead her touch lingering on the leather of his gloves – worn with use and currently stained with the polishing grease they’re using.

A sudden wash of yearning bubbled to the surface, an ache that lurked, like her hand touching on his – a kind of awareness that he’s missed out on something, something resembling what she had, a deep connection with…someone, an intimacy that meant more than the fleeting nature of his job requirements, or an arrangement that ended with payment. He had few who he would even consider friends – certainly not Greef Karga at the Guild, or even his Armorer, who was like the matriarch of their covert; Paz Vizla was out as far as “friends” go, the two men having long ago soured their relationship, a relic of his youth in the covert.

Did Sana consider them friends? Better yet, did he? He didn’t have an answer.

He pulled his hand away, turning his whole body away from her, and began polishing his boots next. Those were certainly worse for wear. That should take him awhile to clean. It was a useful distraction.

Sana started coughing and spluttering.

“You good?” He sat up straighter.

“Yeah, wrong pipe, just…” She went into another coughing fit.

“Sana?”

“Don’t…turn…around,” she gasped out. She kept coughing, and he realized it wasn’t sounding as static-heavy as the previous round – she had removed her helmet to recover.

When she finally got her breath back, he heard her sigh, and lean backwards. Their backs were flush against each other now, she was shifting around to stretch her legs out. There was a tickling of something against his neck, a soft, downy material where there should be beskar – it was her hair. His face inflamed immediately, and he was sure it wasn’t just the alcohol coursing through him.

“I have a question.” Her voice was softer without the vocoder. “You’re not going to like it.”

“If it involves the helmet, I’m not answering,” he mumbled.

She laughed – a puff of air that hit the bare sliver of skin on his neck, right between his helmet and undershirt.

“When was the last time you were kissed?”

* * *

His breath quickened. Shoulders twitched. Lips parted in a pant. And good Maker, if his balls didn’t tighten just a smidge. All these reactions he observed and calculated with striking rapidity, stored them away. He dared ask her for the tihaar, or perhaps a glass of water, because his mouth went as dry as dust.

The alcohol had loosened them both up considerably. Potent little drink that was. His skin, warm, overheated and his body, humming. Had it really only been a few hours since they’d touched each other, rutted against each other on the ship’s walls. Had he really been so bold as to stroke her to completion? Taste her on his fingers?

“I –” He started speaking, wanting to fill the void, because some time had gone by and neither had said anything.

“Hm?” She was nosing at the back of his neck, her knees came up and hugged his side, and her hands slid around his torso.

He defied turning his head even an inch.

“What’s your answer?” Her own lips, on her – stars above! – bare face, they were tantalizingly close. “Has it really been that long?”

All he could say was her name. As if in answer she tugged him closer, and he caught her hands before they traveled too low. His neck fell back, keeping his visor trained fully at the ceiling, leaning back into her smaller frame, as she pressed open-mouth kisses at the base of his neck, the joint of his shoulder. The curtain of her hair, falling around her face, tickling along his skin.

When he said her name again, it was a warning. The hot trail of kisses leading along his nape stilled. Her hands tightened on his shirt, clutching as if she was trying to make him a part of her. They breathed in tandem for a moment.

“I-I can’t,” he said, licking at his own lips. “I can’t.”

His own cock jerked in protest.

She peeled herself away.

“You’re right,” she said, reading into his body language. Her voice was suddenly distant, cold and polished as the pieces of beskar around them. “It’s best not to get attached. When we get back to Navarro, we’ll finish the ritual and then I’ll be leaving.”

The rejection evidently intended to wound. It felt like he’d been slashed by a vibroblade.

Between them was silence upon silence upon silence.

* * *

They finally landed on Navarro. Both were anxious to get back to the covert, especially Sana. He escorted her through the streets to the sewers, where their covert had been in hiding. Her blackguard, the last of her clan, greeted them outside his Armorer’s forge. Behind him trailed the hovering slabs of carbonite – the casualties of their mission.

Wordless, Sana went to them, and they embraced her roughly, the beskar clanging. The women all held each other tightly.

He hung back, while his Armorer approached him.

“Djarin,” she said. He jolted at the name. Her gold helmet glinted in the soft lights of the forge, and the horns on the top of her helm as sharp as ever. “You did well. Your services will not be forgotten.”

“The beskar will be useful to the Tribe,” he said.

“Yes,” she agreed, “but, I meant her.” She gave him a cryptic nod.

He watched the group of women, the five of them – Sana in the center, clutching and speaking to the four blackguards in muted tones. They all were listening, rapt to her words; their bond apparent, strong and unbreakable. A cocktail of hurt and pain panged through him – and then, in its wake, confusion.

“Is that all that’s left of them?” He asked his leader.

"Her clan will be forced back into hiding. But yes, they are all that’s left. This is the Way,” said the Armorer. He repeated it back, and turned to leave, heading back to his quarters, feeling like his presence was a burden around so much private grief.

He was halfway around the corner when he heard her usual name for him.

“Bounty hunter!”

Except it wasn’t Sana as he had thought; it was the Commander of her blackguard. The three stripes on her dark pauldron vivid in the darkness and her black helmet a kaleidoscope of light and shadow. He stiffened, expecting a confrontation. But the woman’s arms were crossed humbly behind her back, and she stepped forward with an uncharacteristic gentleness.

“I want to thank you for returning my clansmen,” said the Commander. “I know my lady, Sana, feels the same. I was wrong about you, and I…”

Her feet scuffed on the concrete floors. “I – I apologize for it,” she said, all sincerity. “You did us a great honor. So…thank you.”

It was with some effort that he nodded his head at her, at a loss for words. He felt deeply tired from their long journey, but he recognized her quiet strength and unwavering poise, and so drew on that. Sana was lucky to call this honorable woman her clanswoman.

“Your duty to Sana is admirable,” he said, really meaning it. “I cannot fault you for it.”

The Commander held out her hand. “I hope we may part ways without any ill will?”

“It is forgotten,” he said. They clasped vambraces and shook on it.

“As to the ritual,” she continued, still holding his forearm. “My lady will come to you when she is ready.

“A word of advice,” she called after him when he already started walking away.

“I know. Don’t get attached.”

“My lady has been too harsh with you,” the Commander said, her voice dropping suggestively. “Normally I would prescribe patience. It is a heavy burden, always wanting to be in control, and she takes it too seriously.”

“I don’t…understand.”

The Commander’s black helmet tilted at him and drew her arms behind her back again. “Sana is of royal blood. She is our clan leader, one day when our people are reunited, she will lead them too. Perhaps, on some occasions…it would relieve her stress...if she wasn't always the one in charge.”

She gave him a final nod, similarly cryptic to the one that his Armorer gave him, he noticed. Did these women all know something he didn’t?

* * *

It really was time for a bath.

After eating a hearty meal, alone, he entered the shared washing room in their quarters. It had a deep pool in the center of the floor which filled quickly with water. A grate overhead brought the last of the days light, filtering into the room, and the sim lights were set low. His helmet needed a polishing, but that would be later, for now he sunk under the water and let it wash overhead, melting him, scrubbing soap into his hair and face. He took note of the bruises on his body, the purple and blue welts on his ribcage and arms. The cuts that healed unevenly.

His was a warrior’s body.

After some time, he was interrupted by a sound outside the door.

“Who’s there?”

“May I enter?” It was her. She had finally come.

His helmet was within arms distance and he splashed the bath waters in retrieving it, slipping it over his head at once, sinking into the water until it was up to his neck. The bottom of his helmet dipping in the warm water.

“Yes.”

She entered, still in her armour, but her hands fisting nervously at her sides.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, stepping into the dim room. Her voice echoed slightly off the heavy walls, as if commanding their attention too. “My clansmen will have a proper burial. And as for my own safe return. I suppose…well, I didn’t make it easy for you.”

There’s a pause, hefty with what is unsaid between them. His neck stilled burned where she had trailed wet tihaar-induced kisses along it.

“How can I ever repay you, bounty hunter?”

They eyed each other for a long time before he said, “I’m sure I can think of something.”

He meant it lightly, to assuage her nerves. She gave a skittish laugh in response.

“I will wait for you in my chambers,” she said with a final nod.

He wasn’t sure what part of his brain made him say it but suddenly he called out: “Wait!”

There it was. Couldn’t take that back. She turned, expectant.

“The pool is big enough for both of us, and the water’s still warm. I’m sure you’d like a bath.”

He hoped he wasn’t giving her mixed signals. His was a gesture of…of, he didn’t have a word for it. What was a friendly bath between sort-of-not-really-bordering-on friends, right?

Her hands were twisting themselves into knots, then she seemed to have considered it enough, or before he was able to change his mind, because then she was unstrapping, undressing herself out of her armor, boots, cape, and all.

Sana was attractive, physically. Wide hips. Strong legs. Petite, in some ways, but he had wrestled with her, so knew better than to count it against her. He cataloged each new feature as it was revealed: the curve of her backside, the coarse hairs between her legs, the slope of her belly. Her breasts were pale, round, and pinkish nipples. And freckles, so many of them, splashed between the valley of her breasts, along her shoulders, her chest…

He felt an augmented sense of awareness with her so exposed before him.

She stepped into the warm waters with a sigh, a soft, delighted little sound escaped her vocoder as she settled opposite him. The pool just wide enough for their knees to bump against each other. Her helmet struck the lip of the pool with an amplified thunk, as she stretched her neck, the picture of relaxation.

“We only have one more night of the ritual,” he said.

“Is that all? I haven’t been counting.” She raised her head to look at him, the edge of her helmet just barely skimming the waters. “Are you blushing under there?”

He fidgeted, and his laugh turned into a cough. There were some remnants of their warmth for each other; he felt better knowing he hadn’t destroyed it completely.

“I was just guessing,” she said, knowing she could poke at him still safely. “But glad to know I was right.”

It was all a little heady. All the steam from the pool made his exhaustion more present, and this body – her body – so close, close enough to reach out and touch if he dared, it was like an adrenaline rush. But she seemed unaware of her effect on him, began lathering herself with soap, unselfconsciously. Her body was easy to read without the added weight of the armor, and he thought, with stomach-flipping certainty, that he was as vulnerable too.

“What happened there?” The vocoder crackling in the humid room brought his attention back to the immediate.

Her finger pointed to a scar that traveled up his right shoulder, almost to his neck.

“A Twi didn’t take too kindly to rejection,” he said. “She was pretty accurate with a throwing knife though.”

“I feel like asking for more. But I know how you feel about questions.”

Maybe it was the humidity and the hot water, but he felt his face burning up as he watched her soap her body.

“Let me,” he offered. Perhaps he was making an apology to her, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he wanted her close again. His brain and body fighting over the lines, and where to draw them.

Without ceremony, she merely handed him the soap and turned around, offering her bare back to him.

“Stand up.”

She did. They rose out of the water together. When he rubbed the bar of soap over her skin, it pebbled over with goosebumps immediately. There were few scars on her skin, just a scattering of freckles spread out like constellations, and fine peach-fuzz hair. They were silent for a while, just the light splashing of the bath water and the low hum from the sim lights. He focused on his task, not helping how mesmerizing it was, watching the trickle of soap and water drip down her spine. It pooling at her hips, the jut of her backside just barely peeking out…

His mouth was dry; his tongue slid uselessly over his cracked lips.

A part of him knew that they were only here because they needed his seed – which was a bizarre way to look at it. But the rituals of his people were sincere, he believed that. He might never see her again – not like this at least, and a part of it made him feel raw. Like he had picked at a scab until it bled.

This would soon have an end.

“And then what?” he said aloud.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what will it be like? If it all works out.” He kept his voice level, despite the sensuality of their situation.

“You mean if it takes…” she asked with a wavering sigh. “If it’s successful?”

He cupped water in his palm and ran it down her shoulder. The soap washed easily of her body. He did it again for the other side.

“Hopefully it will have your funny looking face,” said Sana.

He snorted, knowing her tendency to joke, but paused all the same. “You’ve never seen my face.”

“It was a joke, brown eyes, we can still make jokes.”

Then, his arms relaxed, and he splashed more water onto her back. “I mean what will _happen_?”

“Didn’t they tell you where babies come from?” He could hear the smile no doubt forming under her helmet.

“Enough jokes. Lift your leg,” he ordered her. She eyed him out of the corner of her visor, but did as he told, setting it on the step in the pool.

She sighed and leaned into his touch while he rubbed the bar of soap along her leg. “Well, if the coupling takes, meaning a pregnancy happens, then it will be raised among my clan. It will grow up, and I don’t know, hopefully, never know war.”

“And what if it doesn’t take?”

Sana merely shook her head, shoulders sagging. He moved onto her next leg, and she anticipated his movements, adjusted; he was careful around her scar.

It occurred to him that one day there might be a set of armor walking around bearing his features under the helmet and he would never know, would never see…something crumbled in his chest at that thought. His hand, and the washing, stilled.

She must have sensed him pulling away, for she turned around to face him directly.

“Will I ever meet them?”

“The point is not the individual child, but the group. That’s how we survive,” she said earnestly, and so full of conviction he was almost swayed.

He was thinking the earlier conversation with her Commander: Sana would take up the mantle of leadership, would unite those survivors, the clans. Her purple colors at the front of the fray. He had glimpsed those moments in their previous encounters, and now it came together, as clear as the she was before him – her steadfastness, her strength, her intelligence, the force of her will, the loyalty of those around her. She would be a Mother to them all.

“And you intend to rule the Mandalorians?”

He took her wrist and raised it above their heads, then rubbed the soap down her arm and under her armpit, scrubbing it around her breasts, down to her navel… A kind of static hissing sound met his ears. He rubbed the soap at her navel again. Sana repeated the noise. The muscles in her belly fluttered under his hands.

Then, he traveled them up to her other side. “Do you?”

“Though their blood runs through me, I’m not like my cousins, the former Duchess and her sister. They were leaders. In the true sense of it…it came naturally to them. I’m not like them at all. I’m too bookish.”

“That’s not true,” he countered. “You already are a leader. Just look at your blackguard, your clan. They follow you everywhere.”

“Because they’re sworn to. I’m not cut out for it.”

He had finished washing her. They sat back down under the heated waters, Sana now glistening clean.

“I thought you said it wasn’t about blood.”

“This is different.”

“How? You said it’s about belief. About making the right choice. Look.” He took her hand, stroked the fine lines on the palm – her fate, sealed. “It’s all here.”

She withdrew with vehemence, scoffing. “You honestly don’t believe that space druk!”

“No, I don’t know," he faltered. That night she had told him that one day he would have his own choices to make. The belief in the power of his own choices kept him up at night. "…maybe… Someone out there does.”

There was that inquiring stare of hers, as if she was trying to enjoin two separate visions, two truths – her own and his, Mandalorian and Foundling, light and darkness – immutably at odds, and make them compatible. That’s how he knew she would be a good leader, because she could see the grey where others couldn’t. When he took her hand again, he’s gentle.

“I know what I believe.”

“What’s that?” She's still doubtful.

“I believe that when the time comes, you’ll make the right choice.”

It’s awhile before she’s able to speak, as if he’s knocked the words right out of her. So squirming under his visor, she looked away.

“Since when did you become a philosopher?”

“Just this past week,” he figured with a shrug.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wipes brow* WOw, that was steamy. Phew! Literally. That was steamy - they're in tub... XD  
> next chapter is no doubt the filthiest thing i've ever written so stay tuned folks!


	7. Chapter 7

There’s a click, a whoosh of air around his ears, and then the cool, dry air of the ventilated room hit his face. He rubbed a palm over his scratchy face, idly thinks he should have shaved. His beard, though patchy, was getting longer than usual, and his moustache would need a trim. It’s a vain thought, he knows, because no one sees his face anyway. There’s a kind of relief in the revelation to the room. The unmediated view of his surroundings.

By tomorrow he’ll be light years away, chasing the next puck. The Razor Crest, noticeably lonelier, humming along, blissfully ignorant of the sole occupant’s lonely wanders around the ship, the longing at which he would stare out at the passing space, the hues of hyperspace, night after night.

But that was for tomorrow. For now, he looked unflinchingly around the room at the few crates, the personal possessions that he had left: a canvas bag, the modified blaster on the table, the rifle leaning by the door. Meager but not unsubstantial. He regarded all his items, coolly, detached, his eyes moving steadily between each piece, but his mind was elsewhere.

She’s taking her time.

Earlier, still in the tub, after their conversation lulled, each disappearing into their own heads, she had reached for him. Her hand on his chest was both suggestive and tentative, a warm, solid, welcome weight that heated his loins. The thrum of his heartbeat under her palm was incessant.

Unthinkingly, his legs parted as her hand traveled lower. Exploring along his collarbone, his pectorals, now onto his mid-torso. She felt every ridge of his ribcage, ghosted over every scar and bruise, pulled at the coarse hairs under his navel. Their visors sought each other, and he had scoffed, though without any of the usual sharp edges, and hips, unbidden flexed forward, arching off the bench as she gave a particularly firm stroke along his cock.

It took a couple seconds for his brain to catch up to his body.

“Not here,” he’d said.

He meant the bath. The humidity of the pool waters combined with the strong atmosphere of strong-smelling soaps and bath salts, it played with his head, scrambled his thoughts.

“It shouldn’t be here. The bedroom.” He took her wrist gently and pulled her hand off him, couldn’t stop the needy whine that came forth from his mouth.

She hesitated, trying to read his motivation, but acquiesced.

“Come to my room when you’re ready,” he directed her.

And so, he, checking his own movements, not wanting to appear too hasty to leave, nor too sluggish, rose out of the pool, body towering over her. For a second, he thought she perhaps had shrunk in awe, but her neck tilted to keep an impassive gaze on him.

Now, pacing, helmetless, in his private room, he’s thinking of her washing her hair. It’s an invasive thought, he knows, and so pressed it back down. Doesn’t want to give it a name, the shame he feels, the tangled, contradictory emotions that seeped into him, overlaid with strong yearning. His own thoughts are getting ahead of himself, and he blamed his reactions on the nervousness rising, like bile in his throat.

It’s their last night.

A week ago, he had prayed for this day to come sooner, and now, he doesn’t want to face it at all. This conclusion.

Distracting himself, he packed all the remaining stray items away, the last of his weapons and a change of clothes into a crate. The hinge caught on something and so doesn’t shut all the way, and this tiny detail irritated him. He tried slamming it, to no avail, and it stubbornly bounces back. So, he threw the whole case across the room.

The items are now on his floor. He gave them a withering look. Sighing wearily, he instantly regretted the burst of anger, and, shame-faced, goes to pick up his tools and his belongings, placing them deliberately, though shakily, into place. By the time he’s done there’s a soft call on the other side of his door. The hinges clicked shut, locked. It’s a few strides across the room to his helmet.

She’s finally come for him.

* * *

“You want me to stop?’" He asked, voice low and raw with lust. He ran his hand up her spine, gripping lightly on the back of her neck.

Her hips bucked, bumping against his unarmored thigh. She’s aiming for friction and the triangles of her shoulders, rippled with the effort. A recklessness present in the way she’d thrown her guard down around him. She’s buried her forehelm into the mattress and any noise she made became muffled, but her pants are loud static in the vocoder. He repeated his request, bent so low over her that his crotch rubbed up her naked inner thigh.

“Stars, no, _no_! Don’t you dare stop.” The words couldn’t come out quick enough and she gave another whole-body shudder under him. He squeezed the back of her neck, recognizing her compliance, and now given, could proceed.

He stepped away to admire her. All that armor shed, the burden of her duties, the tension in her body – all the turmoil of emotions hanging over from their mission – was bleeding away, however momentarily. She had abandoned the decorum that so easily ruled her, defined her, and she became an entirely new landscape on which he could observe her closely; and so, he did – he was not the best in the parsec for nothing.

She’s completely naked, save her helmet. The arch of her back was a tantalizing hint and a good place to start. Just as her hands had explored him, he did so to her, gracing his fingers along her body. There was a noticeable tremor to her thighs as he ran his hands along them. Then, gripping her ass cheeks he spread them to view the puckering pink hole and the tapering red lips of her labia.

It felt both sacred and entirely profane.

He rubbed a knuckle at a pearl of wetness already forming around her folds. Her hips surged backwards, and she made a muffled squeak.

“Easy, easy,” he said, stilling her with a squeeze on her backside. He rubbed his knuckles along the same spot, then slid his middle finger in and out with exaggerated slowness.

“Got some lonely nights ahead of you, bounty hunter?” She lifted her helmet up a few inches, watching him out of the side of her visor. Her voice was hoarse, heavy with innuendo. He gave another exaggerated drag of his finger, almost lazily swiped at the bud of her clit.

“Gonna be thinking about this one for a….a – awhile, huh?” Her words stuttered because he added a second finger, pumped right into her tight heat, and she moaned, shamelessly.

His cock twitched with impatience. Fuel indeed for those nights on the Crest, with nothing but his own hands. And he lost count of how many strokes he pumped her, his body throbbing almost painfully. He drew tiny circles with his thumb precisely on her clit and she jolted as if electrocuted.

“More,” he heard her say through a clenched jaw. Her head and helmet was angled so sharply downward into the mattress that the lip of her helmet popped up, revealing fine, straw-colored hairs curling at the nape of her neck.

“More.”

When he removed his fingers, and she gave the most wanton of moans it made him blush. He panted her name, barely able to speak himself, swallowing audibly and kneading along her hips with bruising intensity. Undressing from the rest of his clothing, he then stroking himself, lined his cock already purple and leaking precum, along her backside.

She was repeating “yes, yes, yes” under her breath and with such naked abandon that her tongue caught trippingly in her own throat and she chocked on her words when he finally – stars! Finally, sheathed himself all the way. Bottomed out until his balls were nestled between her thighs. The cool metal of his forehelm touched between her dewy shoulders, and she twitched and bucked with such violence he thought they’d dislodge each other. Her skin was feverishly warm to the touch. She clenched around him and his hips snapped forward, a warning, an answering prayer, he didn’t know, but the feeling was…the feeling was…he was lost in it. She moved beneath him again, squirming too much, clenching and feeling his fullness.

“Stop moving,” he ordered her.

Her flailing subsided. Just the rising and falling of her torso, willing her breathing to calm down, fighting every instinct to remain stubbornly still. For him.

Control – a heady, beautiful thing.

He thumbed down her lower back, trailing the outline of her, the beads of sweat pooling in her lower back. “I want to feel – I just want to feel.”

_You. This._

He doesn’t have a thought to spare, no coherence, just overwhelming sensation – every drop of sweat prickling down his neck, every clench and flutter on his cock. Casting a glance down at where their bodies were flush against each other, his breath hitches and he can’t help but pinch her ass, possessively. It’s a liquid molten, all-consuming heat warming him. He fought the inclination to just endlessly ride the fresh wave of arousal that shuddered through him, so much more pronounced now that he’s buried inside her.

So, holding her in place, he began to make firm, deliberate strokes, pacing himself, despite the temptation and the searing intensity around his cock. Pulling out nearly all the way, while she chased his movement until he’d press her hips into the bed, and then, gracelessly, thrusted back in. The whimpering little noises she made each time he did that sent a thrilling shiver up his spine, and he realized she was enjoying the power he had over her. The loss of her control.

One erotic thought jumbled on top of another – how her legs had so openly spread for him, _for_ him, how she had been so ready and _wet_. His hips snapped fiercely. The warmth spread through him like a force of nature. There’s an urgency suddenly to their fucking, that spared no room. It’s just pure reaction to the tightness coiling in his belly, and so his thrusts become shortened, quick jabs that roiled the whole bed. She doesn’t cry out, doesn’t fight or push him away – can’t even, so pressed into the bed as she is, her legs too bent to find a good holding, her hands clenching and unclenching, so she used whatever momentum she can garner and meet every single one of his thrusts, grinding her mound against him.

It’s lewd, lush. Filthy and magnificent.

With a half-feral growl, he pulled her upwards flush against his front, and she pliant and dazed settled her weight into him. The angle changes sharply, and his cock is nearly freed by the abrupt movement. But she gripped his thigh roughly, balancing them on the edge of the bed.

“Yeah?” He’s breathless. He’s gripping one flushed breast in each hand, as he filled her.

She made a sound like a broken sob when he reached between her legs. He felt the long strokes of his cock, filling her snuggly, brushed the rough pads of his fingers on her clit until she buckled, riding out her orgasm.

He followed soon after. “I’m gonna – oh, I’m gonna…”

“Yeah,” she said, smooth like honey. Her hand on his thigh, pulling him towards her, almost demanding in its own greediness.

They fell together onto the bed while long, white-hot ropes of his cum shoot into her. He squeezed his eyes shut and with a series of groans, pumped his hips until he as if every last drop had been pulled right out of him. Grunting and wheezing, he moved his full weight off her and pulled out, cock spent and twitching. The lusty stamina that had filled him just moments before drained instantly and turned to dread. A puddle of his cum also fell out, dripping down her thighs. He breathed a curse.

“What?” She doesn’t lift her head from between her forearms.

“It – it.” His mouth was dry, and he his tongue was being stubborn. He caught more drips of his seed on his palm. “It fell out.”

The ritual! His body shuddered, still overstimulated.

“It’s okay,” she said, recovering quicker than him. She twisted, resting on one arm, to look at him. “It’s okay,” she repeated, seeing his palm. “I’m sure some of it worked.”

The bed shifted as she tried to raise herself up.

“Lie back,” he instructed her.

“I’m gonna go wash up.” But her resolve was weak, and he pulled her until she was on her back. He touched her knee, spreading her legs open. The inner part of her thighs were soaked in his cum, he trailed his fingers through the smears, scooping and gathering it in his fingers. The swollen lips of her labia parted with a wet click and as his fingers, coated in semen pumped easily, thoroughly into her.

With barely concealed restraint, her hips lifted off the bed. She pulsed around his fingers, tight again, even after taking his cock. He stretched and scissored his fingers.

“Can you take a third?” It comes out no louder than a whisper, too short of breath.

It undoes her, too tangled in her own heat to speak. Just a litany of word in Mando’a – a glorified answer, sacrosanct and wicked all at once. The elbows holding her up trembled mightily, her breasts heaved, and still he pumped her.

“Yes,” she finally managed. “ _Yes._ ”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, and so accommodating, slid a third finger inside her impossibly tight sex. He slicked her clit with the thumb of his other hand. She arched; curses and praises him in the same breath as her body yielded to this addition. Her hips pumped erratically in the air, losing all rhythm. The view of his digits, long and large, filling her had his cock jerking back to life. He curled them upwards, stroking a tempo while his thumb circled her clit; it’s when he changes direction, swipes and rubs his thumb along a different angle that she’s gasping, straining, and convulsing. Clamping her legs around his arm, she comes for the second time that evening.

Lazily, but gleefully, he takes note of how she’s still tightening around his fingers, even as she comes down from her orgasm. Her contractions level out, until she’s pulling him by the wrist with an overwrought motion.

Sated, bodies sizzling with sweat and sex, they’re settled onto the bed. He’d thrown his clothes haphazardly across the room, and goes searching for it, but she’s settled in too closely to him, caressing down his arm, suddenly gentle and intimate that he doesn’t want to leave.

“You okay?” he asked her.

“Hmm?” It took her a couple seconds. “My brain is filled with porg feathers,” she finally answered, adjusting to fold her arm under her helmet. “Think I’m gonna need another bath,” she chuckled.

And he laughed too, a soothing rumble in his chest.

The ritual never demanded a level of intimacy, and so assumed they would never partake. The sex they fell into easily, too easily – but that’s a thought for another time. And all the other things about her, he enjoyed – although that seemed a word not strong enough for it – the banter, and the jokes, the prodding back and forth. Like trading blows in the training room.

It’s this, this part that feels new, rich and strange. The sudden intimacy and weight that every conversation he has with her takes on. He’s aware that she’s shown all sides to her, has revealed more of herself than any other person has been capable of before. It eluded and seduced him all at once, threatened to throw everything off. In defiance of his own thoughts, his own hands fell into place on her body. He rubbed up and her side and back, along her arms, feeling every knub of bone, every plane of muscle, the velvet softness of her overheated skin – solid, dense, real.

She’s murmured something into his shoulder, and it brings a smile to his face. A brightness so massive it was difficult to contain.

“What’s that?”

“I said, I can _hear_ you thinking, bounty hunter.”

“It’s Din Djarin.” He whispered it – the name he called himself only in his memories. So soft, it’s nearly lost in the modulation. He suddenly wished for his armor.

“It’s my name,” he said slowly, holding his breath. “Din Djarin.”

She’s gone very still beside him, he turned his head, expecting her to be asleep, but her head had lifted off her elbow, visor trained on him. The blunt nails of her hand abrade on his skin as her hands swiped along his chest, pulling herself closer. She huffed a small laugh through her nose, not abrasive nor even teasingly, just content.

“Nice to meet you Din Djarin, I’m Sana Kryze.” Her knee bent to rest on his thigh, and he thoughtlessly pulled her closer.

“Ah, you are a Kryze.”

“My mother’s clan,” she answered. Her cheek plating slotted neatly against his shoulder – the cool metal a relief on his flushed skin. Her body like a personal heater all down his side.

“We didn’t always go by that name. That’s how we escaped the Purge. Who cared for some young cousins of a dead Duchess?” She sighed, a weary sound that spoke of some sadness far beyond. She seemed lost in that for a few breaths. “It’s a name that for many years I never thought I could claim. But with Zavi…gone…I’m the last one. The bloodline stops with me unless I…”

The last piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

“Unless you have a child,” he finished her thought, for she had gone silent again.

She tapped her finger against his forehelm. “Not as dumb as you look.”

They stayed like that until they fell asleep. Exhaustion so steep, he doesn’t even remember closing his eyes.

* * *

When he woke the next morning, it’s as if he’s pulled out from a strange dream. He briefly wondered if perhaps it all had been one - the past week, the ritual, Sana herself. But when he rolled over, there she was, curled on her side, still asleep. The sim lights in the room begin to brighten, mimicking a sunrise in golds and reds, and she stirred. Too soon, the dream has an ending.

Eventually they are both up and dressing, suddenly shy, turned away from each other.

“The night before I swore the Creed,” he said to her, pulling his arms into the sleeves of his undershirt.

“What’s that?” She’s already clasping the last of buttons on her robe, and her head swiveled to face him.

“The last time I was kissed.” He’s focusing much too hard on getting the zipper up and over his abdomen than the task required, or indeed for his cheeks to be this warm. Out of his periphery, he can see her spine straighten in surprise.

“My peer group in the Fighting Corps,” he continued. “We stole tihaar from the storerooms. All got blazingly drunk.”

Indeed, the memory, long dormant, came unbidden to him, while he and Sana had played their own drunken game in the hull of his ship. It had brought a small, fond smile to his lips when it came back to him, roaring and in full color, remembering how exuberant they had been – a bunch of teenagers, swapping kisses over giggles and sneaking mischievous sips of alcohol. He even remembered the terrible hangover he had the following morning too. He had wondered how it had gotten so buried.

The self-same fond smile played on his lips now.

“We went around the group, kissed each other full on the mouth. The next day we all swore the Creed. None of us saw our faces ever again.”

“That long ago?” Sana’s bark of laughter broke him out of his reverie. “Why didn’t you say so!”

He sighed – a small one, genially – and shook his head.

“And yet, you’ve never…? You know there are ways around it.”

“I know.” The russet cuirass clunked dully against his chest as he magnetized it on, strapped it in place.

“And you’ve never tried to – I mean. Ever?”

He shrugged. “What’s the point of the Creed if you can get around it?”

"You’re only human...” As if that was enough to dispense forgiveness.

He set the rest of his armor, clicked his vambraces into place, and drew his cloak around his shoulders. The last piece is the belt with his weapon’s holster.

“It must be excruciatingly lonely,” she said sympathetically, imagining it as a particular kind of hell. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend –”

“You didn’t,” he said. His belt now clasped around his waist, he turned to her. “You didn’t,” he repeated with trying gentleness.

* * *

After checking on his ship, he returned to the find the covert assembled in the forge. Sana stood in the center, back lit by the fires, greeting each member with a warm nod or a firm handshake. Her blackguard lingered among them too. By the entrance, a few Foundlings whispered and giggled excitedly to each other.

“So, she’s a princess?” He overheard one ask the group as he stepped into the dark room.

“Not, a princess,” another Foundling shot back. “Mandalorians don’t have royalty. She’s a great warrior!”

He shook his head and moved away, while they dissolved into bickering.

“Let us hope the ritual is a success,” said the Armourer to him, appearing by his side.

“Yes,” he said, but his eyes and his focused were trained on Sana, who was greeting Paz Vizla. He tensed remembering how she had revealed her true feelings concerning Clan Vizla, and knowing the history with Clan Kryze…but she greeted him warmly, as if they knew each other, and he relaxed a little.

“Your part in this is done. You will return to bounty hunting?”

“I will go where the Tribe needs me.”

The Armourer regarded him. “There is great honor in being chosen for the ritual. Have you put any thought towards a signet?”

“No. Not yet.”

“In time, it will reveal itself.” And with that she turned away from him.

An outline of purple beskar emerged over his left shoulder. Sana’s presence had the effect of immediately calming him, and he had to check that he wasn’t leaning too closely to her, pulled magnetically to her.

“I have this for you,” she said with a nod to her blackguard. The Commander put a data pad in his hand. “Our songs. A copy for your own archives.”

“Thank you,” he said, grateful.

“Feel free to add to them. That’s not all.” She beckoned him closer. “The data chip holds a scrambled com-code….for that favor I owe you. We couldn’t save Zavi’s life, or Ralin, or Dez…but you did save mine. I haven’t forgotten.”

He waited a beat, letting her words sink in, before asking: “Where will you go next?”

“There _are_ other artifacts out there. My task is not done.”

He offered her his arm. “Be safe.”

She took his vambrace while stepping closer, and her forehelm touched his timorously – a tender brush of beskar. Ignoring any gnawing thought of the audience around them, he shifted closer and pressed his helmet back, firmer, surer.

Then it was over, and she stepped back with a belated, but by no means insincere, “You too, Din.”

* * *

Navarro's cantina was its usual bustling self – bounty hunters, crooks, thieves, and one grinning Greef Karga. This bounty hunter sat heavily in the booth, before his fellow Guild member, the clink of his Amban pulse rifle on the table drawing heads.

“Mando,” Karga dragged out the word. “Been awhile.”

He only grunted a response.

“What’ll it be? A Calamari Xinphar? Or, no…too easy. How about Lothal Spicebrew? Yes?” His faced pinched in silent observation of his companion. “I think you’re rather old fashioned, like me. A Corellian twister then!”

"I’m not thirsty,” he answered defensively.

“We never socialize, you and I.” Karga gestured dramatically between them, the intonation of his voice rolling in sharp contrast to the bounty hunter’s usual stoic demeanor. “Beginning to wonder if we’re even friends. You never take my drinks offers, I’m offended, Mando, I tell you, _offended_.”

The older man’s pout was characteristically theatrical.

It was an exasperated sigh that the bounty hunter drew, laced with apathy. “What do you have for me?”


	8. Epilogue

By the time he clears the atmosphere, he’s met with a breathtaking sight. Sunlight reflects off strange, wide trees with pink flowers blooming across their branches. In the abundance of snow and ice, it literally sparkles. It’s a pity the Child is asleep – who would be gazing in awe and surely making all kinds of motions and impatient noises – as he lands the Crest. He’s picked a clearing to land the ship intending to explore the area before bringing the Child along.

The Armorer’s transmission spoke of a settlement on Carlac that was rebuilding and welcoming refugee Mandalorians – a peaceful place, on a sleepy planet in the Outer Rim territories. It had apparently escaped largely unscathed from the fallout of the wars.

His travels around the galaxy have so far been fruitless, and he was no less close to discovering the origins of the Child, nor of its powers, than when he left Navarro a few months ago. He figures the kid would like a little respite, and the company of the covert. The Armorer promised Foundlings were welcome too, encouraged it even. A haven, of a sorts, she called it. He was thrilled just to be hearing from his Armorer in the first place – knowing she had survived, had gotten off-world and was leading others from surrounding coverts.

Checking one last time that his precious cargo is indeed still snoring softly – heavily asleep, having eaten a rather large portion of Din’s supplies for lunch – wrapped in blankets, Din closes the bunk.

A wall of cold air hits his beskar, nearly singing off the metal, as the large doors to the Crest open. He’s landed in a small field, and as he steps out into the blinding sunlight, his first sense is the serenity of the place. While he saw mountains and plains from his flyover, the immediate area around him is mostly dense forest, the trees as individually shaped as bodies uprooted in the snow, standing tall, proud, ancient. They sway in the moderate breeze.

He takes a few tentative steps into the snowbank, and his boots crunch loudly.

A few clicks on his vambraces, and his HUD in the helmet navigates the direction to the settlement a few miles to the southeast. It also tells him that there is some atmospheric pressure changes, possibly a snowstorm coming down from the nearby mountains. He has time to make some moderate reconnaissance and exploration of the surrounding area, then he intends to contact his Armorer to discuss supplies.

He saw no wildlife as he made a primary sweep of the ground around his ship, perhaps the cold had kept them burrowed or hidden. He walks in and out of the sunlight under the tall trees, setting up a perimeter, marking it with his boot trails.

The Armorer was right, the place is idyllic.

There’s a particularly loud rustling immediately behind him at one point, but when he turns all he sees are the swaying treetops. He’s about to reprimand his own paranoid mind, but then there’s a roar of an engine from above and something heavy knocks him off his feet. He’s dragged along by something flying, before he twists defensively, and the engine sputters off, tossing them both rolling into the snow. It’s a heavy body, and as he grips it, he feels the familiar slide of beskar on his gloves. Din balks as he gets the wind knocked out of him as they land in a not too particularly downy snowbank. His head rings for what feels like ages, and then he’s able to make out the outline of a dark blue helmet above him.

He grinds his teeth. “Get off me, Vizla!”

The larger Mandalorian laughs with his whole body, still very much on top of Din, and stubbornly not moving.

“Thought you’d appreciate a dramatic entrance,” Paz Vizla says, evidently smirking beneath his helmet. He activates his jet pack again, scooping his arms under Din’s, rights the two men. “At least we’ll make it an even fight.”

They immediately start wrestling. Din latches onto the wider man’s hips and lunges. They tussle, and gleefully, Din gets in a rough punch to the other’s gut that has Paz doubling over, so he hooks his ankle, tripping Paz into the snow. Paz’s leg swipes out and knocks Din over, and he lands next to him. Their armor clanks together and Din is pinned under heavy forearms yet again. Their combined panting is loud in the tranquil landscape. Din flushes at being bested; Paz’s weight is unrelenting.

“Getting a little rusty, are we?” Paz has the nerve to be chuckling.

“Lucky I didn’t shoot you.”

Paz only hums. It reverberates through Din. He’d never admit it to the other man, but he is happy to see him. _Alive_ at the very least. He puts a brake on what he knows might be a tongue twister of something else eating at him regarding Paz Vizla, and so opts for something less personal.

“Are you my welcoming party?” He swats playfully at the dark blue helmet, but Paz grips his wrist, twists it above his head, and holds it down, which only drives a sharp jut of beskar on Paz’s armor to dig even further into his hip bone. Din bites down on a groan of discomfort.

“Please,” his peer sneers. “No one knows you’re here yet. I saw that hunk of junk you call a _space_ ship and had to see for myself.”

A small cooing comes from somewhere in the vicinity above Din’s head, and he just barely snaps his head in its direction as Paz stiffens, gasps. The Child (How stars! How?!) has escaped from his bunk and is now plodding through the snow towards the two men in armor lying in the snow.

Din’s heart skips a few beats. The Child’s breath is coming out in white puffs before him, and his ears are drooping, but – and here, he breathes a sigh of relief – not low enough for discomfort, more out of curiosity. But the extra pink color to those green cheeks are unsettling him.

Paz’s helmet tilts, equally in awe, and Din’s heart pounds even harder.

“Don’t hurt it,” he pleads.

But Paz isn’t on the offensive, rather, as the Child steps closer, he actually releases Din’s wrist to run a surprisingly gentle gloved finger around the shell of one large ear. The Child squeaks a greeting, then, ears perking up a bit, waddles over to tap his little green claws against Din’s visor, blinking owlishly down at him.

“Is this it?” Paz asks, and – sweet release – actually removes most of his weight off Din. “Your Foundling?”

“Yes.”

Paz accompanies them back to the ship. Din wraps the Child in his cape as best he can, because the little one is beginning to shiver, but all the while staring in wonder at the other Mandalorian. It kind of stuns Din to see the bigger man suddenly squirming under the Child’s stare.

“I thought it would be bigger by now.” Paz sneaks a glance at the Child in Din’s arm. “Will you be joining us in the village?”

“There won’t be time. Pressure’s dropping. I expect it to storm soon.”

Paz taps at his own vambrace, looks to the skies to confirm. “It won’t start heavily until nightfall. I can have a speeder sent. I know the Armorer has been anxious for your arrival. There is much to discuss now that you’re here."

That piece of information shocks him. “Discuss what?”

“I’ll save that for your real welcoming party.”

They arrive back at the Crest. Din starts up the ramp, desperate to get the child back into the warmth of the hull, or at least find it a proper extra layer. He knows he must have an old cape or perhaps a woolen blanket somewhere.

“It’s different here,” says Paz, with something resembling seriousness in his tone, that Din actually spins to look at the man, still standing at the base of the ramp. “It’s not like our covert. You’ll have to see for yourself. But, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Din just nods back, slightly confused.

“You know,” Paz says, “ _she’s_ here too.”

His stomach plummets. “Who?” He asks, playing dumb, despite the beating in his chest, like a hollow drum.

Paz only jerks his head and scoffs harshly through his nose. He turns and flies off on his jetpack, engine roaring. Din watches, worrying his lip, until Paz’s hovering figure disappears over the treetops. A soft sound from the child in his arms jerks him back, and he bounces the kid on his hip, as if reminding him he hadn’t forgotten about that extra layer.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says softly, turning back up the ramp. “He’s not so bad.”

* * *

True to his word, Paz sends a speeder. But – here Din could have shot the man, because – it's driven by a droid.

Begrudgingly, he packs a few of his items on the speeder – a personal bag for him, another one full of miscellany for the Child, and his trusty rifle. He had fashioned a sling out of extra materials and the Child sat cooing in it, tucked against his chest while the speeder races over the snow towards the settlement.

Sure enough, the placid landscape and the dense forest of the strange pink-leaved trees went on for miles and miles around them. It delighted the Child, stretching his arms and laughing, as they whip around a particularly tight bend in the forest, until they came to a well-traveled path that led them directly into a small village.

Triangle rooftops, with elaborately decorated wooden spires and small windows emerge out of thin air in the dense forest of trees, as if organically part of the landscape. The speeder pulls up to the middle of makeshift clearing, and the droid driving it beeps, announcing the arrival. From a distance it was hard to see, but now in the midst of the small, humble village, he sees that many of the buildings are half-finished, some even have evidence of fire damage, with blackened, hulking skeletons of wooden beams exposed to the elements.

The second thing that catches is attention is all the faces.

He stops dead in his tracks, the snow crunching underfoot as he hops out of the speeder.

Faces, all kinds of different faces. Some wearing Mandalorian armor, some not. There are a few helmets scattered among those all looking at the new arrivals, but they are few and far between.

_So that’s what Vizla meant by “different"._

The child coos in his sling on his chest, his attention caught by all the new stimuli – the speeder ride, and now the curious glances of so many new people. Din had been intentionally avoiding crowds since Navarro, just in case of residual Imps, and diligent in keeping him and the Child largely separated and distanced from crowded bazaars or busy space ports. But now, with all the newness of the surroundings, the Child squirms in his makeshift holder making noises of wonder and surprise. He pats the front of the sling, rubbing the Child’s belly to soothe it, then clips his rifle to his back.

“I know,” he says, unable to hide his awe to the Child. “I know.”

* * *

It starts to snow as he walks around the village. He can practically hear the twinkling of the snow around him, falling in soft in near invisible flakes, like dust. It fascinates the Child to no end, who giggles and opens his mouth to let it fall on his tongue.

“Djarin!” His Armorer greets him, and they excitedly grasp each other’s vambraces. Her helmet, shining gold, tilts at his Foundling, who squeals in high-pitched glee. A few surrounding onlookers pause to stare at the bizarre package strapped on his chest.

The Armorer pats the little wrinkled forehead. “Yes, I remember you too. I’m glad you two are safe,” she speaks to Din, her warmth infectious.

“Vizla said you were anticipating my arrival. He said there’s much to discuss.”

“In time, Djarin. In time. For now, a storm is coming so let’s get inside.”

“Is it about the covert – are there more who have survived?” A pang of guilt hits him, hot and searing, as he thinks about the risk they undertook in protecting him and the Child nearly a year ago now. He willingly leaves out the other question at the forefront of his mind – chiefly involving Paz’s other little drop of information. _Her._

“Any questions you have, I promise, will be answered. Please, first, grab your things and come inside.”

There’s a noticeable wind that picks up, rattling the thatched roofs of the abandoned buildings nearby. Those in the market already pick up their pace and shuffle along as the snow begins to thicken – the blizzard moving fast. Din grabs his bags and follows the Armorer down a narrow path to one of those tall buildings that _is_ finished. They walk through the wide doors together.

Inside is a long table with lots of seating. Multiple hearths surround the walls, complete with roaring fires that instantly banish any of the cold that sweeps through the doors as they enter. There are some eating in small groups, while others stand in a line for food or drink. It’s a warm sight. He figures about half the room remains helmeted, but the groups co-mingle. They are mostly comprised of women and children – more Foundlings.

Paz Vizla easily stands out in one corner, distinguished in the crowd by his boisterous and booming laugh. He’s overseeing an arm-wrestling match between two younger, unhelmeted Mandalorians, and nods cockily at Din as they make a pass by their part of the table.

She brings him the far end of the long table, near by the back, where a group of Elders in distinctive clothing are seated together. They have oval faces and almond-shaped eyes, decorative pieces in their hair and variously painted designs on their faces; the older men have beards as white as snow.

“These are our hosts,” says the Armorer, introducing Din to the Elders. “The Council of Elders of the Ming Po. They are the natives of this planet.”

They all nod solemnly at him, and the sight of the Child raises more than one discerning eyebrows. One stands - a woman, younger in appearance, her black hair tightly pulled from her face has but a few streaks of grey showing around her temples - bows slightly before the two armored Mandalorians.

“You are most welcome here,” says the Ming Po woman, her grey eyes humble and kind. “My name is Myla, I am the daughter of the Chieftain here,” – she gestures to one Elder, an old man with a grumpy expression – “and a member of the Council. There is plenty of food for everyone. Please, make yourself at home.”

He can only nod, mutely, but gratefully all the same.

“It was Sana Kryze that negotiated the terms of our refuge here on Carlac, with Myla and the Council’s permission and grace," said the Armorer.

Myla’s grey eyes flickered in Din’s direction. “A trust she has yet to betray. She is an honorable woman.”

The Armorer nodded in agreement. Myla turned away and sat back down next to her father at the table.

“Come, I will take you to your quarters. Someone will deliver food for you.”

The Child’s ears perked up at the mention of food, and Din’s stomach made a corresponding grumble too. He was terribly hungry, especially as it was promising to be fresh and warm.

As they walk back towards the main doors, he notices a trail of Foundlings and Ming Po children, are following at his heels, peeking glances at the Child strapped to his chest, and waving at it, before dissolving into giggling fits. It amuses the kid too, who’s large eyes follow them, waving back and cooing. The Armorer ducks her helmet as she laughs.

One of them, no older than nine or ten, steps forward. “Is that a Foundling?” she asks.

“Yes,” Din answers.

“Can he play with us?” Pipes up a Ming Po boy.

Din hesitates.

“He will be safe here,” says his Armorer. “I’m sure you’d appreciate a few hours alone.”

He honestly does but is still slow to unbuckle the kid from his sling. “Sure,” he finally says, and sets the kid on the ground.

“I’ll see you later,” he says, rubbing the wrinkled forehead with his finger.

The Child pouts, ears drooping a bit, but then he scampers over to the smiling group of children, who immediately pick him up and go in search of food. With a soft sigh, he follows his Armorer to his quarters.

* * *

A heavy drift has already left a blanket of snow along the trees, obscuring the pathways and alighting on the rooftops. It’s still coming down as he follows his Armorer into the ever-darkening evening and its whipping, whistling winds howl around his helmet. They stop at modest-sized domed yurt slightly tucked back from the village; its frame is made from wood lined with heavy furs. The Armorer pulls aside a large flap and Din enters.

The floors were made of timber and covered with fancifully embroidered rugs. In a pit in the center is a large heating lamp that warms the space.

“We’ve built our own temporary shelters while we rebuild the main buildings. You may use this one. There are sleeping pallets through there” – she gestured to another flap – “and a small bin for washing up as well. Someone will leave you a plate of food.”

It’s significantly more luxurious than his ship, even the quarters supplied in the sewers of Navarro, so he is intensely appreciative. Din can only manage a very stilted “thank you” as his burgeoning mind is preoccupied.

The Armorer lifts the flap to leave, but is stopped by Din’s question: “Does Sana know I’m here?”

The flap closes slowly. “She does.”

“And – and she’s expecting me?”

“Sana has gone with a group to a neighboring Ming Po village. I imagine the weather has delayed their return. They should be back in the morning.”

“But…she _knows_ I’m here?”

The Armorer’s helmet tilts; Din can read her inquiring expression nonetheless. “Yes. Is something bothering you?”

“No,” he says, perhaps too quickly. So, drops the subject. “Thank you again.”

“I’ll make sure your Foundling is returned before too late.”

* * *

The mornings are brilliant are Carlac. Yellow sun filters through the atmosphere, iridescent against the snow. The trees flutter and sway as their leaves are warmed by the rising sun, shaking and dripping snow off their broad bodies, almost as if heaving a sigh. Marveling at this landscape, Din walks in the fresh air. He and the Child took an early breakfast, and then, reluctantly handing him over to some very eager children and a smiling caretaker, Din went, solo, to check on his ship.

The snow had very nearly buried it. He turns on the external engines and the solar panels on top in order to melt some of the snow off. He has a few hours to himself, and he’s been meaning to fix the wobbly docking mechanisms, and so tinkers with that for a few minutes until he realizes he’s missing a tool and has to double back for a different one.

A figure in a white cape is standing inside his ship. It shocks him so much he immediately overrides everything else, and goes into hunting mode, prowls across the floor, approaching silently until his weapon is flush against their neck.

“You’re trespassing,” he says, low and threatening.

She tenses immediately. It’s a she – he can’t see her face, half obscured by a high collar made of fur, only the long straw-colored messy braid running down her back, revealing small ears. Gloved hands raise slowly, revealing no weapons. And he hears her opening and closing her mouth, at a loss for words. There’s something – and it pokes at the back of his mind –...familiar about her, about the dignified slope of her shoulders, about the almost academic interest in the way she’s observing the interior of his ship…

He shoves his blaster, hitting her neck again. “Turn around. Slowly.”

An uneasy moment follows, for what feels interminably long. The woman in white trembles. When she finally speaks it’s like hearing a ghost.

“Still have your reflexes, don’t you, bounty hunter?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *watching from a safe distance through binoculars* ....now kiss...
> 
> This has been a strange ride. Never thought I'd finish. ANd....is that cliffhanger..?  
> Whoops. Guess you'll have to see what comes next. *slides away*

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr: https://iamskyereads.tumblr.com/


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